


An Unexpected Deduction

by Middle_Earth_Mama



Series: Johnlock Bagginshield Crackfics [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Rings of Power, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Attempt at Humor, Because of Reasons, Crack Crossover, Deliberate Badfic, Don’t copy to another site, Hair Kink, Hand Jobs, Hilarious, Hurt Sherlock Holmes, Light Angst, M/M, Majestic Thorin, Middle Earth, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, Pining, Protective John Watson, Random Vials of Oil, Ridiculous, Romance, Sherlock Holmes Makes Deductions, Sherlock Is So Done, Smut, The Author Regrets Nothing, Top John Watson, Top Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 16:35:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 27,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21666523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Middle_Earth_Mama/pseuds/Middle_Earth_Mama
Summary: Sherlock and John find themselves dumped into Middle Earth. (Don't ask)Sherlock quickly deduces they must be in..... a fanfic! Dun dun dun! Will he figure out how to get them home, or will he be too irritated with the ridiculous and predictable half ass plot line?So, I was up late the other night, running on like two hours of sleep, and this happened. It is intended to be funny and absolutely ridiculous. I had to share it, but really, this is for me. Unfortunately for my readers, I find silliness comes very easy to me. Updates will be random. I will try to update weekly, but I make no promises!
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Dwalin/Ori (Tolkien), Kíli (Tolkien)/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies), Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Johnlock Bagginshield Crackfics [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1787644
Comments: 171
Kudos: 116





	1. An Unexpected Deduction

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, before we begin, please note that I am well aware this entire thing is utterly horrible and absurd in pretty much every way. However, I am having a fricking blast trying to see how much more ridiculous I can get, and it's fun to toy with Sherlock. This is the result of too little sleep, a stupid sense of humor, and what happens when my obsession with The Hobbit gets hit with a dash of my newfound love of everything Sherlock.

Sherlock jumped up, brushing the dirt and assorted greenery from his coat and took a good look around. The terrain was entirely unfamiliar, thick woods and wilderness were definitely not his realm. 

“Sherlock?”

The detective looked to the left where John was attempting to disentangle himself from a bush. 

“I'm here John,” Sherlock answered.

John huffed. “Could I get a little help?”

Sherlock moved quickly to the doctor's side and pulled him from the brambles. 

John straightened his jacket and glanced around. “Where the bloody hell are we?”

“I have no idea,” Sherlock answered. His head snapped around at the sound of something coming through the forest. He shoved John back into the bush and slid behind a tree as a group of short, thick, human looking creatures came trudging through the brush. 

“Fili, Kili, search for firewood. Balin, Dwalin, with me,” the one closest to Sherlock commanded in a booming voice.   
Obviously this one was the leader.   
Sherlock peered around the tree at the rest of the group, sizing them up and trying to figure out the best way to proceed. The decision was taken from him, when the one called Dwalin rounded the tree he was hiding behind, probably to relieve himself.

“Thorin!” Dwalin boomed, backing up quickly.

“What is it?” the leader, the one Sherlock assumed must be Thorin, stopped in his tracks when he spotted Sherlock. His head tilted down and he gave the tall man an assessing look.  
“Who are you?” Thorin demanded.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes.”

Thorin frowned, skeptical. “That's an.... interesting name.”

“I'm not from around here,” Sherlock explained easily.

Dwalin's eyes raked over the man's slender frame, and then drifted back to his pale and lovely face.   
“Yer not an elf, are ya?”

“Don't be a fool, Dwalin,” Thorin rebuked. “Look at the way he's dressed.”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head incredulously.   
“Elves? You can't be serious.”  
The rest of the group had gathered around them, all speaking in hushed whispers and eying Sherlock uneasily.

“I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, leader of Durin's folk,” Thorin introduced himself impressively.

Sherlock raised his eyebrow at Thorin. He wanted to tell John to come out of hiding, but he was hit with a protective urge to make sure these creatures were not hostile before John's presence became known. 

“And you are not elves?” Sherlock asked.

Dwalin scoffed, insulted. 

“We are the displaced dwarves of Erebor,” Thorin answered, sure this... Sherlock person was a wizard of some sort. Much as he hated it, he didn't wish to anger a potential wielder of magic.   
“We are on our way to reclaim our homeland, and we will not stand to be delayed.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.   
“You believe I wish to stop you,” he stated simply. “My friend and I have come to this land by mistake.”   
He glanced up as John managed to free himself from the thorned bushes once again. He gave Sherlock an aggravated huff and rolled his eyes when Sherlock grinned in response.

“Excuse me, move aside,” a strangely familiar voice called as a slightly smaller being worked his way through the throng of dwarves surrounding Sherlock.   
“Hello. I- I just wanted to let you know that..... I am not a dwarf.”

Sherlock tilted his head in amusement.   
“Then, what exactly are you?”

“I am a hobbit, Mr. Holmes. Bilbo Baggins is my name. You'll find that, should the rest of these miscreants prove to be too much, I make much more sensible company.”   
The hobbit glanced over as John Watson made his way to Sherlock's side. The two regarded each other uneasily, before Bilbo took a hesitant step back.   
“Handsome looking fellow,” the hobbit declared.

John's eyes widened and he gave Sherlock a look of uncertainty, crossing his arms in front of him. He looked back at Bilbo and mentally shook himself.  
“Erm, thank you?”

“Don't mention it. Would... would you two like to join us this evening? We were about to make camp and have a bit to eat.” Bilbo asked, a bit too nonchalantly. 

“Master Baggins,” Thorin addressed the hobbit, “we can not hope to feed two more, especially of their size. Besides,” Thorin turned back to Sherlock and John. “if you are not elves, then what are you? You're not wizards, are you?” Thorin was still skeptical.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Preposterous. We're humans.”

Thorin nodded. “Men. We have had dealings with men before. They are short sighted. Greedy.” 

Sherlock's eyebrows raised, but he found himself more amused than insulted. 

“We can help,” John declared, “find food, hunt... things,” the doctor's response sounded uncertain as he realized he wasn't really sure what kind of things there would be to hunt in this strange world. 

Thorin regarded the two for a moment. “Alright then, you may spend the night in our camp. What's your name, human?”

“John Watson.”

“Well, John Watson, why don't you go with my nephews and see what you can find to feed us tonight?” Thorin sounded amused, and John was more than eager to pull out his gun and wipe that haughty grin off the dwarf's face.

* * * * *

John shot them a deer, and once he and Sherlock had managed to convince the dwarves they weren't demons sent to kill them with their loud magic metal weapon, they settled down around the fire, sharing a meal of deer and potatoes. The dwarves were enjoying themselves, telling stories and teasing each other light heartedly as the moon steadily rose.

“So, Sherlock,” John said softly, leaning closer to the consulting detective, “what do you make of this? Are- are we dreaming? Or is this some sort of simulation happening in our heads? It can't possibly be real.”

Sherlock gave John a perplexed look, staring a bit too intensely. 

“Sherlock?” John's brow furrowed in concern.

“I'm sorry John, I just...” Sherlock shook his head, glancing around them.

“No, no it's ok,” John's voice was gentle, and he couldn't help but notice the way the firelight played with the gorgeous color of Sherlock's eyes. “I- I....” 

Sherlock frowned and quickly rose from his spot of the ground.   
“Excuse me, John. I need to think.”   
He turned away and swept off into the trees.

* * * * *

Morning came too quickly, and John found himself more tired than he had been when he had first bed down on the hard forest floor. Bilbo had been kind enough to share a bit of his coat he used as a pillow. He had offered to share his bedroll, but John couldn't hope to fit alongside the hobbit. 

John stood up, his back cracking noisily as he stretched, then looked around for some sign of Sherlock. He was relieved when he spotted Sherlock making his way to John's side. 

“Figure it out yet?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock quirked a grin, giving John an amused sidelong glance.   
“Indeed. Have you?”

“You know I haven't. Nothing makes sense,” John's voice rose a bit as he answered, his distress evident.

“The answer is clear,” Sherlock explained. “John, we are in a fanfic.”


	2. Characters and Setting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2! I know it seems like I'm poking fun at fandoms, but really, I'm poking fun at myself. I find I write the most predictable formulas in fic, and I can't say that I'm ashamed!  
More silliness. I hope you enjoy it!

“What?!?!” John's yell attracted the attention of the group of dwarves, but he didn't notice. “What the bloody hell does that even mean? We're in a fanfic?”

“Precisely.”

John glanced around at the concerned faces now turned towards him. 

“Is everything alright over here?” Bilbo approached the two men hesitantly.

“Sorry, got a bit carried away,” John mumbled quickly, before turning back to Sherlock.  
“What the hell is a fanfic?” he asked in an angry whisper. “What does this mean?”

“Well, first we have to figure out all we can about what kind of fic we're in,” Sherlock responded, pulling on his deduction face.  
“Clearly the writer is obsessed with Martin Freeman, who portrays both Bilbo Baggins and John Watson. That is why you are both here,” he stated, looking from John to Bilbo, who had settled in at John's side. The similarity was uncanny, and Sherlock couldn't believe nobody else had put it together. 

Bilbo looked at John questioningly.  
“What is he talking about?”

John rested his forehead in his hand in defeat.  
“I never know what he's talking about.”

Sherlock glanced at the other two, then rolled his eyes.  
“Oh fine I'll just play along then.”  
He turned his gaze onto Bilbo.  
“You. Short person.”

Bilbo gave the tall man a scowl. “Hobbit.”

Sherlock sighed impatiently.  
“Whatever. Where is your leader?”

Bilbo's scowl deepened, then pointed to where Thorin stood by himself just outside camp.

“Oi!” Sherlock called as he stomped off toward Thorin.

Thorin turned to face Sherlock, his hair billowing out in the breeze. Sunlight glistened off his hair and brought a sparkle to his eyes. They were far too blue, blue as bright and deep as sapphire.

“Ah, another favorite of our dear author,” Sherlock muttered to himself

Thorin frowned. “What was that?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Never mind. Would you be so kind as to let us tag along with you for a while? As you have seen, my friend is quite adept at hunting, and we could be a great asset to your little..... troop.”

“You wish to join my company?” Thorin verified, his face hiding none of his hesitancy.

“Yes. For a time,” Sherlock answered.

Thorin thought for a moment, looking off at the horizon, the sun sparkling off the strands of silver near his temples.

“Oh for God's sake,” Sherlock mumbled to himself. He rolled his eyes then noticed Thorin was turning back toward him again.

“I will confer with Balin. If he agrees, then we will let you come with us.” The dwarf said no more and stalked off past Sherlock.

* * * * *

Three days. They had been traveling with the company of Thorin Oakenshield for three days. Sherlock had figured out most everything he could about their companions without actually talking to them. Thorin Oakenshield was a displaced royal, destined to be king of the kingdom of Erebor. His story was a sad one, full of despair and turmoil. Clearly, he was the dark, brooding, handsome hero who just needed to be reminded he had a tender heart.

Fili and Kili were Thorin's nephews. They were young, according to their race, and though they were both energetic mischief makers, they were also quite different. 

Fili was the crown prince, or would be, once their kingdom was reclaimed. Sherlock could see the struggle within the fair-haired youth. He wanted to enjoy his brothers antics, find fun or make it himself, but he also wanted to be responsible. The prince longed to prove himself to his uncle, prove that someday, he would make a good king. He was obviously a point of interest, as his conflict seemed a bit more obvious than might seem necessary. 

Kili was the comic relief. Though he had a knack for ridiculous pranks, Sherlock could tell the dark haired prince was another favorite of the author. His boyish charm and devilish good looks were often over dramatized. Perhaps he would be a character with unexpected growth as the story progressed. 

Dwalin was Thorin's closest friend, the two had seen the fall of their kingdom together. Sherlock could tell they were close, but he was certain there were no romantic feelings involved there. Dwalin fit the bill for one who was in need of a good cry, or so a fic written by an overly emotional woman would insist.

Balin was Dwalin's brother. It was clear he was meant to be the most practical. Balin was wise and generally neutral, probably he would be good at giving one of the more gruff characters a reality check if they got too intense.

Bombur and Bifur seemed to be kind of side characters. They popped in once in a while to make themselves useful, and had introduced themselves to Sherlock and John. Well, Bifur didn't. Supposedly, he couldn't speak anything but Khuzdul, which the author apparently didn't know either, because Sherlock had never heard him speak a word since he and John had joined the company. 

Bofur was a cheerful chap, he came around a bit more than Bombur or Bifur, but it was apparent this story didn't greatly involve the dwarf. Oin, Gloin, and Nori had hardly said a word, therefore must also be side characters. Naturally, Sherlock figured it might be possible these side characters would come in to play later in the story, but at this point, there was not much focus on them.

Dori spent most of his active time nattering over his littlest brother Ori, who obviously had a crush on Dwalin. Of course, Dwalin had no idea. The match would be a good one, in the sense of fanfic, where the soft and tender hearted innocent book worm redeemed the gruff and calloused heart of an old warrior. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Then there was Bilbo Baggins. Charming fellow, obviously a main character, polite and mild mannered until ruffled. Much like John, honestly. 

Sherlock chuckled to himself. Of course Bilbo was much like John.

Then there was their setting. Clearly, they were not located anywhere on Earth, which made Sherlock think they were most likely in some fantasy world. They had not crossed any other living beings, (other than a bit of wildlife, and only when they were hunting) but Sherlock was certain there had to be more. Unfortunately, he hadn't had much time to dwell on such things, out in the wild “roughing it” as they were. 

It was quite irritating, being stuck in the wilderness with not so much as a change of clothes, but Sherlock and John made due. John and Bilbo had become friends, which Sherlock had predicted they certainly would get on well enough, and more often than not, he found himself walking alongside the two. John and Bilbo discussed all the most boring things Sherlock could imagine; family trees, tea, knitting... honestly, his brain would explode if he didn't get away from them for at least a few hours. 

“So how did you end up with this band of... dwarves?” John asked the hobbit. He was still having a hard time accepting that this was in fact not a dream, and they were most definitely traveling with creatures that were not human. 

“Oh, Gandalf brought them round. I had not intended to join them,” Bilbo answered easily, “but there was something about them.” Bilbo sighed and shrugged.  
“At any rate, I felt a need to help them. A need to see them home. I feel for them, displaced and wandering, searching for a place to call home. Anyway, so here I am.” Bilbo gave John a quick smile, one that John couldn't quite return.

“Displaced and wandering. Sounds familiar,” John muttered. “So this Gandalf person. What is he like?”

Bilbo chuckled. “I don't think I could do him justice. You'll meet him soon enough. But your world. Will you tell me about it?”

John grinned. “Oh it's nothing like this at all.” He continued to describe the modern world, as best he could to a creature from a roughly medieval land. 

Sherlock let the conversation fade out. How exactly had they come to be here? He had been trying for days to find the answer, but was no closer to figuring it out than he had been when they found themselves here in the first place. He tried to remember what happened before they ended up here, but to no avail. They had come home from solving a case, a very simple case, jealous girlfriend, double murder, suspect found within eight hours. They came home, ate, and went to bed. Nothing strange had happened, there had been nothing suspicious or out of place when they went to bed. John bade Sherlock good night at approximately 12:00am, Sherlock had gone to bed around 3:00. The next thing they knew, they were here, fully dressed and lost in the wilderness. 

Sherlock huffed in irritation. There must be something he had missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you have any ridiculous ideas! I'm trying to find humor in every aspect here, and I would love to have your thoughts! More soon my lovely readers!


	3. A Sub-Par Plot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Plot thickens! Sherlock is not impressed. But I hope you are! And yes. I do poke fun at myself in this chapter as well.

By the end of a week, Sherlock was absolutely certain they were in a fanfic. The details of their world were unremarkable and lacked much depth, conversations happened mostly one at a time, certain traits about people stood out more than others for no apparent reason and honestly, there was no way in hell Thorin Oakenshield's eyes were that blue! And how on Earth could his hair remain so shiny and soft looking in the wilderness? 

Judging by the fact that most interactions over the last week had been between Thorin and Bilbo, and none of them had been good, Sherlock found it safe to assume the two of them were supposed to be the focus of this particular fic. He had seen Bilbo call Thorin out on his moodiness at least three times, and Thorin had called Bilbo “halfling” more times than that, which apparently was not a polite term for a hobbit. Bilbo had left every altercation with a most dejected and heartbreaking look on his face, one that Thorin happened to never notice. 

Thorin, for his part, was carefully watchful of Bilbo. Nobody else seemed to notice, but Sherlock had caught him checking Bilbo over, mostly after a good scare, and always after they had a particularly bad spat. Honestly, they acted so much like worst enemies it was almost humorous.

“So,” John's voice shook Sherlock from his musings. He was surprised the doctor had managed to sneak up on him, though given their current circumstances, he supposed he had been quite distracted.  
“Any other deductions about this fanfic we seem to be in?” John asked.

“Some kind of romance fic,” Sherlock answered indifferently.

John frowned in confusion. “Romance?”

“Judging by the blatant misunderstandings, mild angst, and sexual tension between our leader and that little hobbit, I would say it is safe to deduce that this author is a Thorin/Bilbo shipper. In which case, Bilbo Baggins is about to find Thorin naked or mostly naked in the river,” Sherlock answered, quickly scanning the river they were walking alongside.   
“Ah, there!” Sherlock pointed to where, indeed, Bilbo had just stumbled upon a very naked and dripping wet Thorin Oakenshield at the water's edge.  
“There is profound emphasis on the water droplets and sunlight reflecting off Thorin's hair.”   
Sherlock raised his gaze to the sky, a look of annoyance on his face.   
“Hair kink? How predictable.”   
He looked back down at the dwarves in the river.  
“There seems to be a little side romance story occurring as well. Our author is also a Dwalin/Ori shipper.”  
He dropped his gaze and shook his head before looking at John, furrowing his brow.   
“Why are you naked?”   
He closed his eyes and huffed.   
“Sherlock/John shipper. How did I miss that?”   
He looked up again, annoyed.   
“This plot is sub-par at best. Too predictable.”

“Sherlock, who are you talking to?” John asked, even more confused than he had been before. 

“The author of this fic. Everything that happens is completely in their hands, and is utterly predictable. Boring.”

“Oh,” John frowned.   
“You don't think this author person is going to kill any of us off, do you?”

“Certainly not. Someone may be injured, allowing for the popular hurt/comfort relationship of one or both pairings, but no. I do not have any reason to believe any of us will actually die.”

“That's.... good, I suppose. Who would you say our author is?”

“Late 20's to early 30's, female, bored or starved for a creative outlet, suggesting this person is probably a mother. Overworked, tired, and using writing as a means to escape. Bit pathetic, really.”   
Sherlock tripped over a tree root, stumbling and nearly landing on his face.   
“And apparently vindictive. Though it seems she likes me enough not to damage me at least.”

Sherlock looked down at John. There was the other reason he was sure they were in some kind of romantic fanfic. John had never looked more beautiful. Sherlock had always loved John, sure, but here? For some reason, he couldn't keep his mind off his friend for more than a moment. Romantic feelings were not something he usually got, and he had been nearly drowning in them the last couple days. 

“Sherlock, what are looking at?” John asked tentatively.

Sherlock sighed.   
“I suddenly feel overcome with a need to bend you over behind that tree.”

John's eyes widened. “What?!”

“Oh come now, John, I know for a fact you have been thinking along the same lines for days,” Sherlock frowned.   
“Unless of course this fic is about an unrequited love, which would be horrible. It would make it nearly impossible for me to think clearly if these feelings are not reciprocated.”   
He groaned in frustration, before looking to John again.   
“Do you have feelings for me?” he demanded. “Romantic feelings?”

“Oh! Well, I- I-” John tried in vain to remain composed.

“Oh for God's sake John, just answer the question. Adorable as it is to see you stutter and blush, I really need an answer.”

John swallowed, averting Sherlock's gaze. “Alright, then. Yes.”

Sherlock grinned triumphantly. “Excellent.”   
He grabbed John by the hand and pulled him into a kiss. When they finally separated, they were both a bit breathless, a fact that Sherlock thought was perhaps a bit overkill.   
“Come, John. We probably don't have much time.”   
With that, Sherlock drug John a little way into the trees, where he hoped they wouldn't be found. He removed his coat and spread it out for John to lay on. 

“Sherlock, why are we doing this now?” John asked uncertainly. “Not that I'm opposed, I just don't see why this is so crucial at this very moment?”

“Because John, I can't keep my mind off you and it will all be much easier to focus if we do this now so it doesn't carry on for weeks. Months. Who knows how long,” Sherlock answered as he pulled of his shirt. 

“Oh. Why would it carry on for so long? If we want each other, can't we find another moment at some point later?” 

“No. Judging by what's happened so far, this is most probably a slow-burn fic. That means it will be drawn out, there will be all sorts of misunderstandings and events that will keep us apart, driving us to emotional fits and near insanity. Trust me, John, it is much better this way.” 

Sherlock dropped his pants, leaving them in a heap on the grass and lowered himself onto the coat with John. He reached around into his coat pockets, rifling and searching for something, and John was starting to feel a bit awkward.

“What are you looking for?” John finally asked.

“There must be something here. I can't imagine now this is happening the author would stop us. That would be cruel at this point. Aha!” Sherlock pulled a little bottle from his coat pocket. 

“What is that?” John eyed the bottle suspiciously.

“Oil.”

“For what?”

Sherlock gave John a pointed look.

John swallowed thickly.  
“Why was there a random vial of oil in your coat pocket?”

“It's a Male/Male fanfic, John, there's always unexplainable and aptly available oil. Or lube. Or copious amounts of spit, but I for one, am not a fan of spit as lube.”

“Wait, do you mean to.....” John's face fell. “Like this? Sherlock, this is not exactly the most romantic setting. Or mood, for that matter.”

“Romantic? Really John, I need you to try to be practical here.”

John frowned. “Honestly, I'm not sure why I'm so bothered.”

“Because she wants you to be.”

“What?”

“Come on John, you know this is the most logical solution. I have to be able to think straight to figure out how to get us out of here.”

“No. Not like this, Sherlock.”   
John got up, grabbing his pants that just happened to be by the tree next to him and began pulling them on.  
“I don't want to feel like you're fucking me just to get your head clear. I don't care if I'm just some fictional character being played with in some silly woman's story, Sherlock, I won't be played with by you.”  
With that, John walked off in the direction of the company, an air of utter disappointment hanging around him like a cloud.

“Oh, honestly. Misunderstandings, tension, and now pining and angst,” Sherlock grumbled as he pulled his clothes back on. “Women. This is madness!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I've made you smile with my absurd sense of humor. More soon!


	4. Hurt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is getting more and more ludicrous with every chapter. It has made me realize my sense of humor is absolutely juvenile and I make myself laugh way more than I think is normal. Hopefully you're laughing too.  
Enjoy!

Sherlock had to admit, out of all the unpleasant experiences he had ever encountered, being chased by orcs across an open field was up there at the top of the list. 

Orcs, apparently, were blood thirsty mutated creatures hell bent on ending as many lives as they could manage to get their hands on. Therefore, when the company was set upon by orcs riding on the back of even more vicious wolves, (wargs, he was told) Sherlock would not hesitate to admit that he was scared. Much as fear was not a typical feeling the detective experienced, he was very much afraid when a giant warg, sharp teeth snapping and drool hanging in ropes from its hungry mouth, attacked him, knocking him to the ground. It hovered over him, lunging to snap its jaws at his face, then dropped, Kili's arrows protruding from his gaping maw, heavy smelly body twitching against Sherlock's chest.

“Sherlock!” John's voice was frantic as he came running to the younger man's aid. With the help of Dori and Dwalin, John managed to shift the corpse off of the stunned detective's chest.

“Are you alright?” John asked as he dropped to his knees at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock nodded, gasping to catch his breath. “Didn't think she'd actually do that to me,” he huffed.

“She? Was that thing female?” John asked incredulously.

Sherlock gave him an irritated scowl. “Not the beast, you fool.”

“Get up! There isn't much time!” Thorin barked at the two men. 

John pulled Sherlock to the open tunnel and they tumbled and rolled down. The dwarves around them seemed relieved to escape, but Thorin seemed wary. A corpse of a warg had rolled down behind them, struck with an arrow Thorin seemed certain had come from elves. 

“Great,” Sherlock said weakly, lifting his hand from where he had been clutching his stomach. It was covered in his own blood, and there was a small puddle of it pooling beneath him. His head was swimming and he felt darkness creeping in around his peripheries.  
“And here I thought she liked me,” he barely managed to breathe out before his head fell back and he knew no more. 

* * * * *

Soft sheets beneath his hands. A pillow stuffed with what had to be feathers beneath his head. The air was strangely perfect, the temperature not too cold or warm, and no trace of the scent of pollutants or car exhaust. 

Ah yes, Middle Earth, untouched by the real world's foulness. 

Sherlock continued to take in what he could of his surroundings before he opened his eyes. There was the soft sound of water falling, obviously outside the walls he was enclosed in. The sound of bird song flowed in through the window above his bed, indicating it was most likely morning. Sherlock frowned. There was the steady rhythm of someone breathing next to him, a bit closer than was normal. He blinked his eyes slowly open, squinting at the morning light pouring through the window. The haze cleared and he took in his surroundings.

The room Sherlock found himself in was all white; walls, ceiling, floor, even the furniture. There was no door, just an opening one could walk through at will, giving Sherlock the unsettling feeling of being exposed. Sunlight pored in through the opening, bathing everything in a blinding light that reflected horridly into Sherlock's eyes. He squinted and took stock of himself, noting the mildly threatening cut running along his side. The warg that pinned him must have nicked him with it's long sharp claws. 

Sherlock shook his head, forcing himself to forget the moment, and looked around again. The bed he was laying in was white, as were the sheets and blankets. Beside his bed was a white chair, and a deeply sleeping John Watson lay slumped against the mattress, drooling lightly onto the sheets.

“John?” Sherlock tried to softly rouse the man. “John, wake up.”

The doctor grumbled, blinking sleepily until he caught sight of Sherlock's face.  
“You're awake!” he exclaimed.

“Obviously. What happened?” Sherlock demanded.

“You were tackled by a warg. He flayed your side open, and you passed out from blood loss and shock. Lord Elrond and I managed to patch you up,” John answered as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Alright,” Sherlock said in a falsely steady voice. “And who is this 'Lord Elrond'?”

“He is the head of this house,” an unfamiliar voice declared.

Sherlock turned to find the source of this voice, and saw a rather pale looking man with long dark hair and pointy ears enter the room.

“I am the Lord Elrond,” the pointy eared man said, “and I wish to speak with you.”

Sherlock frowned. “What for?” he asked petulantly. 

“I wish to know where you've come from,” Elrond clarified, his smirk making it clear he found Sherlock's antics amusing.

“As do I,” said a strange elderly man as he appeared at Elrond's side. The man's hair was mostly gray, and he was dressed in a long cloak. He carried a wooden staff, and Bilbo Baggins appeared to be his shadow. How had Sherlock not noticed the hobbit's presence before now? Must have been an afterthought by the author.

“Sorry. Not interested,” Sherlock declared as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “John, where are my trousers?”

“Sherlock,” John began, his tone heavy with the irritating insinuation that Sherlock was acting out of line.

Sherlock huffed. “Very well. What do you want, Lord Elrond?” Sherlock asked petulantly. 

“How came you to our world?” Lord Elrond asked skeptically.

“I have no more idea as to how we came to be here than you do as to how you came to be an elf lord in Middle Earth,” Sherlock answered shortly.

“Sherlock,” John said in his warning tone.

“No, it's alright Dr. Watson.” Lord Elrond frowned. “Fuck, he's right. Most people can't even look at me without thinking about The Matrix, but nobody ever talks about that.”

Gandalf smirked to himself, trying to disguise his laughter as a coughing fit.

Bilbo frowned from where he stood at the wizard's side. “What's The Matrix?”

Sherlock huffed in irritation. “Not important. How do we get back home?”

Elrond sighed. “I'm afraid I can't tell you that. Not without knowing what has brought you to us in the first place.”

“So what now?” John asked softly.

“Take heart, Dr. Watson. You and Sherlock may stay here as long as you like. We have already offered our hospitality to your band of dwarves, and you are welcome to stay as well. You may leave when they do, or you may stay if you so please. I leave it to you to decide.” 

Elrond gave a slight bow of his head, then swept off and out the door.

“Sherlock Holmes,” The gray haired wizard approached the detective. “The company has told me much about you. I feel it is time we had a little chat.”

* * * * *

The conversation with the wizard had gotten them nowhere. Wise though he may seem, Gandalf was lacking as far as Sherlock was concerned. Sure, he had a bit of whit, and he seemed to understand more than most. He did see, but like most, he did not observe. The wizard seemed to know more than he let on about Sherlock and John, but seemed clueless as to the obvious peril he was sending Thorin and the company into.

Sherlock had listened intently to stories told around the fire, stories of death and dragon fire devouring everything the dwarves had ever known. Gandalf claimed the beast could possibly be dead, but Sherlock knew. He knew the beast would be alive when they arrived at the mountain. And he was sure the dear author of their story would keep them all alive. Wouldn't she? 

Sherlock pondered for another full day, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, and John sat vigilant at his side. The doctor only left to relieve himself, then he retook his place in the chair at Sherlock's side. 

After twenty two hours of scouring his mind palace, Sherlock found himself shaken from his thoughts by a persistent doctor.

“Sherlock, you have laid in thought, unmoving for nearly a full day now. You need to eat and sleep, and Lord knows you should have a bath,” John ordered.

Sherlock scowled, but John did not seem affected in any way. The younger man huffed indignantly, before giving in to his friend's logic.  
“Very well. Where can I go to bathe?”

“The side room. Over there,” John gestured to a door off behind him. “Do you need help getting there?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. Of course I do, she has made sure of it.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Really, I do NOT enjoy this whole damsel in distress bit, you know.”

John frowned. “Of course not, Sherlock. Now let's get you to the bath.”


	5. Out of Character

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, somehow I hadn't been paying attention yesterday and posted chapter four again. Oops!  
Here is the actual chapter five.  
Happy Holidays and please enjoy!

Sherlock set his bare feet lightly on the cool stone floor. It looked like white marble, but really, how could a place this large possibly be made entirely of marble? Sherlock supposed in fiction, it didn't really matter. It could be made of marshmallows honestly, and nobody would say a word about it. He took John's offered hand and tried putting a bit of weight on his legs. It was surprising, for Sherlock, when he found his legs trembling beneath him. He moved to take a step, and his side pulled painfully. He let out a cry and grimaced, leaning heavily onto John to relieve the pressure. 

“Surely this shouldn't hurt so terribly,” Sherlock groaned between clenched teeth as John took the taller man's arm and slung it over his shoulders, taking most of Sherlock's weight. 

“You were recently sliced open by a filthy beast and you haven't eaten more than a few mouthfuls in several days. Of course you are weak and in pain you fool,” John answered irritatedly. 

They made their way slowly across the floor, and Sherlock couldn't help but to admire the man supporting him. John was shorter than Sherlock, but he was surprisingly sturdy. Sherlock could feel the stretch and bunching of shoulder muscles beneath his arm, and why the hell was he thinking about this right now? 

It didn't matter. Not when the sunlight was shining off of the graying golden strands of John's hair and sparkling against the pale luminescence of his eyes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh for fuck's sake!”

John stopped, giving Sherlock that look that meant John was currently wondering if indeed his dearest friend was quite mad. 

“Just... keep moving, John. Quickly. And for the love of all that is good, don't look at me!” Sherlock demanded. 

John gave Sherlock a skeptical look. “I'm sorry?”

“It's far too distracting! Just don't look at me, John,” Sherlock repeated.

John huffed then continued helping Sherlock across the room. Thankfully, it wasn't long before they had reached the bath. John settled Sherlock carefully into a chair and sat at the edge of the tub to turn on the hot water.

“Indoor plumbing?” Sherlock mumbled in annoyance. “Isn't Middle Earth a bit too medieval for such amenities?” 

John looked at the detective, irritation plain in his features.   
“What are you complaining about now?” 

“I just find it annoying that with all the inability to figure out electricity or even simple hygiene, Middle Earth has indoor heated plumbing. This is absolutely ridiculous!”

John stood and began walking toward Sherlock with sure and determined steps.   
“Would you rather I had to heat your bathwater over an open fire before I could fill the tub for you?”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course not. Don't be a fool John.”

“Good. Now get undressed. You're going to need help getting in, and I for one am getting quite tired of waiting around for you to decide you need me.”

Sherlock's frown deepened. “John, are you alright?”

“No, Sherlock. No I am bloody well not alright!” John declared as he began pacing the length of the ridiculously clean bathroom. “I have been dragged around this god-forsaken place by dwarves, of all things, and then I watched a monstrous wolf pin you to the ground and slice you wide open, meaning to make a meal out of you. We've spoken to two people who I had been assured are of the wisest beings this side of Mirkwood and we still don't know how to get out of here!”

“John?”

“Don't you 'Jawn' me, Sherlock! And now, I have to sit here and listen to you rant and rave because the plumbing doesn't make sense!” John stopped pacing, leveling his glare at the younger man. “I am tired, I am cranky, I smell like wet dwarf and sweat, and I am ready to go home!”

Sherlock stared up at John's firm and troubled face. He had never seen the doctor look quite like this before. His eyes were wild, more so than when they had been on any case, and his hands were shaking slightly.   
Was John scared?

“John,” Sherlock tried to sound reassuring, “are you afraid?”

John stepped back, licking his lips and running his hands through his hair agitatedly.   
“I'm not afraid, Sherlock,” he said with a strained voice.

The helpless look in John's eyes sent a jolt through Sherlock's heart. He longed to close the distance between them, to reach out and reassure the man he had grown so fond of. Sherlock stood on unsteady feet and slowly moved toward John. He reached out, taking the doctor's hand in both of his own and stroked his thumb over it lightly.

“I said I'm not scared, Sherlock!” John declared, pulling his hand out of Sherlock's grasp and resuming his agitated pacing.

“She wants me to comfort you, it's a hurt/comfort fic! Let me comfort you, John!” 

“Always with this 'she', Sherlock! Who is she? Is she someone you know? Because you sure seem to be aware of what it is that she wants!” John yelled.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and tilted his head, amusement playing about his lips.   
Was John jealous?   
“You are being absurd.”

“Am I?!” John demanded.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, tone even and calm. “I would almost go as far as to say that I believe you are jealous of this author.”

“No shit, Sherlock!” John spat before he turned heel and walked out the door.

Sherlock stood in confused silence for a few minutes.   
What exactly had just happened? John was far too level headed and reasonable to act out so emotionally.   
Was he being written out of character?  
Wasn't that typically frowned upon in the world of fanfiction?   
Clearly, this author played by no one's rules. With that being said, Sherlock figured he would have to be a bit more careful if John were suddenly prone to emotional outbursts. 

Sherlock cringed as he pictured the angry twist of John's face as he had yelled at him. John knew this was not Sherlock's doing, didn't he? Sherlock was doing all he could to figure out what was going on. He wanted to go home too, but there was no reason for John to take it out on Sherlock. And now, he would have to wait for John or someone to come help him, as he knew he would not be able to make it back to the bed without assistance.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt very alone. He frowned as he noticed the moisture gathering in the corner of his eyes.   
Oh. He was going to act out of character too. Fantastic. His legs were far too shaky, his vision blurred by highly unnecessary tears. He leaned against the side of the tub and slowly slid down to sit on the cold stone floor.

Sherlock was not used to crying, it was not something he ever did out of anything more than necessity. Playing a part to gather information for a case was one thing, finding himself unable to control his own emotions simply because John had yelled at him was another thing entirely. Sherlock knew it would normally annoy him, but all he could find in himself was despair. Dark gloomy angsty despair. 

It was utterly ridiculous.


	6. Slow Burn

Sherlock wasn't sure how long he had been laying on the floor. Judging by the light coming into the room, the sun had nearly set, and the air was getting a bit colder. The cool stone soothed the burning pain of his stitches through the thin layer of the elvish tunic and loose pants he was apparently wearing. 

Sherlock couldn't remember ever really noticing what he had on. He had been looking for trousers earlier, but, given that this fic was being written by an amateur, he should expect such ignorance of details. His hip bone ached where it rested against unforgiving stone, and Sherlock had been quite convinced John had left him in Rivendell and headed out on his own. He was glad to be proven wrong when the sound of John's sure gait echoed from the bedroom.

“Sherlock?” John sounded worried, a fact Sherlock found a bit amusing, considering he had left Sherlock in the first place.

“Oh, Sherlock! I'm so sorry, I forgot you're having so much trouble getting around. I never should have left you here alone!” John gushed as he helped Sherlock sit up. 

“It's alright John. It seems we are both acting like absolute imbeciles,” Sherlock concluded, a bit unsettled at hearing John gush.

“Here, let me just get some light in here,” John said, moving around the room to light the two sconces on the wall. He returned quickly, dropping back to the floor at Sherlock's side.

“Have you been crying?” John asked incredulously.

Sherlock sighed, refusing to meet John's gaze. “Apparently,” he spat.

“Oh Sherlock, I'm so sorry,” John said again, softer than the first time. He squatted down and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's middle. With a light grunt of effort, he pulled the taller man off the floor and deposited him back in the chair. 

“Quite alright. I'm fine. No harm done,” Sherlock mumbled, looking anything but fine, which was quite a lazy way to put it. 

“Sherlock,” John began softly, taking the detective's chin into his hand. “It's not alright. I left you here, injured, on the floor, by yourself, because I was having an emotional outburst for no reason.”

Sherlock tried to ignore the effect John was having on him. The comfort of the doctor's steady hand on his skin, the proximity of his face to Sherlock's. The concern lacing his low voice. It was very disorienting.

“No,” Sherlock gently shook his head from John's grasp, “it is alright John. Just,” he swallowed, licking his lips before raising his eyes to look at John directly. “Would you please help me into the bath?”

John's breath stuttered lightly. He could hardly stand to look at Sherlock. Dark hair curling and framing his face carelessly, icy blue eyes leveling that burning stare straight through him. Sherlock arched a graceful brow, and John couldn't help his gaze dropping to those tempting lips as the detective's tongue flicked out to wet them. 

This was going to be difficult.

John stood and held out his hand, pulling Sherlock to his feet. He helped the detective sit himself on the edge of the tub, then reached in to test the water.

“It's still warm. Now let me help you with your shirt,” John's voice was low and soft, and Sherlock wondered if this was how he would talk to a lover, an unsettling thought, as this was not usually the way Sherlock thought at all. 

Sherlock tried to shake the strange mindset,when he was further distracted as the doctor's steady, rough hands grazed Sherlock's sides as he took the hem of the light tunic and pulled it up and over Sherlock's head. 

John leaned forward just a bit. Their faces were close, close enough Sherlock knew he could press their lips together with the slightest tilt of his head. John's breath tickled warm and soft over his lips. John's eyes closed and the tip of his nose brushed against Sherlock's slightly. 

“Here,” John sat back quickly, shaking them both from the moment. He held out a hand for Sherlock to take, helping the taller man to his feet. He hesitated, his hands fidgeting at his sides as he waited for Sherlock to remove his pants. 

Sherlock grabbed the waist of his pants, pushing them down just slightly, so they rested stubbornly over his hipbones.   
“I'm sorry John, I can't get them any lower. I can't bend with this gash. You'll have to do the rest.”

Sherlock contained his smirk at the flush that covered John's face. The doctor clenched his jaw determinedly, before he moved to stand behind Sherlock. He grabbed the waistband and pulled down. 

Sherlock shifted his legs slightly so the waistband would catch around his knees. He looked back at John mischievously, and the doctor took the challenge. John dropped to one knee, trying to ignore the sharp intake of breath as his face brushed against the skin of Sherlock's outer thigh. He leaned down and finished removing Sherlock's pants, then grabbed one foot and lifted, pulling it free, before doing the same for the other. 

John groaned inwardly. Sherlock's skin was so soft, so warm and smooth, despite the time spent in the wild. He would have to keep his whits about him if he intended to keep this interaction professional. Surely it would not be wise to take advantage of Sherlock's injured state. Then again, how could he possibly expect to keep his hands clinical and help Sherlock bathe without touching every inch of skin he could reach? 

John shook himself mentally and stood, rendered slightly dizzy by his sudden change in position, and the fact that Sherlock now stood completely bare hardly an inch in front of him.

Sherlock grinned as he felt John's hands hover over his waist, hot breath coming just a bit closer to his bare shoulder. There was a light brush of lips, then John was moving a safer distance away. 

Sherlock turned and took the hand offered to him, following John's lead and letting himself be eased into the tub. When had the water been turned off? Sherlock could distinctly remember John turning the water on earlier, but he could have sworn the doctor had left it on when he had stormed out. He was certain neither of them had turned it off after that moment either. 

Sherlock found himself all the more frustrated by the fact, coupled with the way John was obviously struggling to keep himself in check. John wanted him, that much was clear, but for the sake of sexual tension, the good doctor was keeping himself barely in line, full of meaningful touches and almost kisses. 

Honestly, who wrote this drivel? And who would waste their time reading it? What absolute nonsense. Sherlock was going to have to do something to resolve this. His direct approach the last time had had disastrous results, and so he considered his other options. He could certainly offer himself openly to John, and hope the doctor would accept. Of course, the way things were going, he was sure the author would not allow that. 

Sherlock huffed, resigned. He would have to play by the rules. Keep the tension rising until John snapped. He sat back against the back of the tub, wincing dramatically and grasping the edge of the tub roughly.

“Are you alright?” John asked, the worry plain in his voice.

“Oh, John. I hate to ask you this but I'm afraid I'm in quite a lot of pain,” Sherlock was sure John would see through his dramatics, but clearly Sherlock's knack for acting was working in his favor. 

“Anything, Sherlock. What do you need?” The overdone concern was nauseating, but Sherlock would take it.

“I... I can't...” Sherlock tipped his chin down, feigning shyness. Then he looked up from beneath his thick lashes and bit his lip nervously.   
“Will you help me wash?” he finally asked, his voice soft and pleading.

“Oh,” John blushed again. He hadn't been aware Sherlock could sound so lovely, so vulnerable, nearly begging. His heart sped up a bit as he wondered what Sherlock would sound like begging in earnest. Oh, how beautiful would it be to have the tall beautiful man beneath him, writhing and pleading and-   
No, he had to stop himself right there.

Sherlock watched as John's thoughts seem to dance across his face. There was no hiding anything from Sherlock, and the detective couldn't help the way his body responded to the obvious arousal written all over John's face. He pulled a knee up, hoping to keep his body's physical response to himself for just a few moments longer.

“Yes. Yes of course I will help you, Sherlock,” John responded, his voice a bit more gravely than usual.

John found some soap and a cloth on the shelf in the corner. He brought it to the side of the tub, looking to Sherlock for direction.

Sherlock leaned forward slightly in an obvious invitation for John to wash his back. He was thrilled when the doctor visibly relaxed and set to work. He moved behind Sherlock, where he could hide his crimson face and hopefully get a better handle on himself.

By the time he was finished washing Sherlock's back, John was feeling quite a bit more in control. Until the detective laid himself back, letting his arms rest at his sides and raising a brow up at the doctor. Sherlock glanced quickly down at his chest, then back to John in an obvious request for John to continue. 

John licked his lips, taking a deep breath before he knelt beside the tub and set to work. It was nearly painful, dragging the cloth over Sherlock's skin, watching the suds and water droplets run lightly over the plains of his chest and down his stomach. But John forced his eyes not to wander, to drop down to watch where the soap mixed with the water. Where the rest of Sherlock's long, lithe body lay naked beneath the surface. He drew his eyes up, watching the firelight flicker across the detective's ivory skin. It glinted on water droplets, making Sherlock's chest seem radiant, beautiful. 

“John?” Sherlock's voice yanked John back to attention, and he realized he had been still and staring for far longer than was decent. His eyes snapped up to Sherlock's face, a sight even more breathtaking than the one John had lost himself admiring a moment before. There was a mischievous quirk to Sherlock's lips, just a slight grin at the corner of his mouth, and John found himself staring at it. The detective's lips looked full and soft, welcoming. His breath caught as Sherlock took his bottom lip lightly between his teeth. 

John squeezed his eyes shut. No, no, he was supposed to be helping Sherlock bathe, not ogling him in the tub. John looked up again to find Sherlock's face just inches from his own. The detective's eyes were dark and heavily lidded, his pupils blown wide, reflecting the dancing firelight. 

John gasped, before he found himself leaning forward, his eyes closing again. 

Their lips brushed gently, far too gently in Sherlock's opinion, but he knew better than to push John again. He was a bit disappointed when John pulled away, but he held it in check, instead dropping his gaze for a moment, before glancing up at John again with a sheepish grin. 

“I'm sorry Sherlock,” John sighed.

“Don't be,” the detective responded. “Now where were we?”   
He sat back and laid against the end of the tub, resuming the position he had been in before. 

John took a steadying breath and prepared to set back to work. He dutifully washed Sherlock's arms, taking care not to miss and inch before he would have to even look at the detective's lower half. When finally he turned to wash Sherlock's legs, he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes for a few long moments. Sherlock was his best friend. They had been flat mates for a few years, and he had seen Sherlock naked plenty of times. Granted, he had never been required to wash the man, but this was something he could surely do for his best mate. 

John moved down toward the other end of the tub and finally managed to look at the task at hand, keeping his eyes on Sherlock's feet. He scrubbed them with clinical proficiency, careful to get between the toes, and worked up Sherlock's ankles. His heart was racing as he reached Sherlock's calves, and his hands shook slightly as he finished washing up to Sherlock's knees. He stopped there and held the cloth out to his friend, keeping his eyes averted. 

Sherlock took the offered cloth, barely concealing his enjoyment at John's discomfiture. The doctor was blushing violently, struggling to keep his eyes off Sherlock for any amount of time and pointedly avoiding looking above Sherlock's knees.

“John?” 

John looked up at Sherlock's voice, his face taking on an even deeper shade of red as he caught sight of Sherlock's half hard length beneath the water. 

“I- I'll just... leave you to finish up,” John stammered hastily as he stood up and turned on his heel, making a quick retreat to the bedroom.

“Dammit,” Sherlock muttered to himself. That had been close. Agonizingly close. 

He sat back and began planning.   
How would one woo their intended in a slow burn fic?


	7. Pining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's more!

Sherlock was beside himself. His attempt at seducing John had gone rather well, he decided. The results had been favorable, though a bit insufficient. He had thought to try again when John came to help him out of the tub, but John simply led Sherlock to his chair and handed him a towel. The doctor had been all too careful when helping Sherlock into a fresh set of clothes, never letting his touch linger for longer than necessary, and keeping his distance. 

It was absolutely maddening. 

Sherlock couldn't remember ever being this overcome with... sexual energy... since he had been an adolescent. Even then, it had not been so acute, since back then he had no other participant in mind. Sherlock had found very quickly his urges could be satisfied with his hand, leaving him free to focus on his studies or whatever experiment he had been working on, without the distraction of his newly raging hormones. 

This was different. His longing for John was hindering his ability to focus, to process and observe things properly. It was as though John had infested his mind palace, covering the floors and filling the empty spaces, making it impossible for Sherlock to hone in on anything else. 

It helped, two days later, when Sherlock was allowed out of bed for more than a few minutes at a time. He was urged to leave his room, with assistance of course, and start taking regular walks. John always accompanied him, and Sherlock couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. The scenery and fresh air definitely helped clear Sherlock's mind, keeping his focus off of John for the most part, though the steady presence at his side and occasional reassuring hand on the small of his back was quite distracting. 

Damn this pining slow/burn bull shit!

“John!” A familiar voice drew Sherlock's attention. He wasn't sure if he should be amused or annoyed to find one Bilbo Baggins crossing paths with he and John near the fountain.

“Good afternoon! Good to see you up and around, Mr. Holmes,” the hobbit declared politely.

“Good afternoon to you, Master Baggins,” John responded in kind.

Sherlock had not planned on responding at all, then John's elbow dug at his ribs sharply.  
“Oh, uh... thank you,” Sherlock grumbled out under John's disapproving glare.

“Best not continue on that way,” Bilbo said with a strange look on his face. 

John frowned. “Why is that?”

Bilbo fidgeted, looking down as he answered. “The dwarves are... in that fountain,” he finally muttered.

“In the fountain?” John queried, and as if in response there was a loud splash and an angry shout from the far side of the fountain.

Sherlock grinned as the three moved to investigate, Bilbo carefully averting his eyes and John looking amused at the spectacle. 

The dwarves indeed were splashing in the fountain, completely naked and looking for all the world like a bunch of bearded children at play. What immature, foolish, uncivilized- 

“Watch it!” Sherlock yelled, pulled from his inner grumblings by a splash that soaked his front. He looked up at the dwarves in outrage, then his gaze swept back to John, who was laughing uncontrollably at his side. 

John threw his hand to his mouth in an attempt to smother his loud guffaws, but Sherlock was not fooled. The corner of the detective's mouth quirked up in a grin, and he gave John a mischievous look.

Oh, here it was again. Dammit, why did John always have to look so... so... brilliant! Sherlock wished he could find it in himself to be more annoyed, but he just couldn't. Not when John looked so at peace and happy. He hadn't seen John laugh so freely in a very long while. It was utterly breathtaking. 

Sherlock must've been staring for quite some time, as John's laughter had subsided, and now he found the doctor was staring back at him just as intensely. 

They stood a few moments longer, staring intently at one another, both refusing to move. John's gaze kept shifting from Sherlock's face to the solid form of Sherlock's chest, perfectly accentuated by his wet white tunic. 

Sherlock recognized the look in John's eyes. The burning desire and unbridled lust. He felt it reflected in his own gaze. 

“John?” Sherlock said softly.

John shook himself, quickly averting his gaze. 

“Um. We should probably... find you some dry clothes,” John said softly. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed slowly. “Yes we should.” He gave a grinning Bilbo a wink, and headed away from the fountain, letting his arm brush lightly against John's as he went. He grinned at the unmistakable sharp intake of breath and glanced back to catch John shaking his head with eyes pinched shut.

“Something the matter?” Sherlock asked in amusement.

“What? No- No, nothing. Just... lead on,” John answered, voice wavering a bit. 

Damn all this pining. Sherlock would just have to try harder.

* * * * * 

Time seemed to skip, which Sherlock was having a hard time getting used to. It happened quite frequently, where there was a blur of time between slightly important events. All part of being in some sort of story. Obviously the writer couldn't focus on and write about every minuscule moment of the day. And so, suddenly it was evening. Early evening, if Sherlock were correct. 

And how often was Sherlock incorrect? 

Apparently, they had shared a meal with Elrond and a few other elves a bit earlier. Sherlock's stomach was full, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what it was they had eaten. Not important. What was important, was that he was now standing on a balcony, (how many damn balconies did this place have?), overlooking Thorin and Bilbo, who were overlooking Gandalf and Elrond. The wizard and the elf seemed to be in a bit of a heated debate regarding Thorin's mental stability. 

For goodness sake, how predictable. The hobbit would overhear this, and the dwarf would be all brooding about it, and Bilbo would want to reassure him. Convince him that he didn't see Thorin that way, that obviously Elrond didn't know him, etcetera etcetera. Probably Bilbo would chase Thorin down after the dwarf ran off- oh! There they went. They'd be snogging in a hallway within a minute. 

Sherlock shook his head, looking up to watch Gandalf and Elrond. They had moved onto a rooftop, or something of the like, where two other figures stood waiting for them. There was a woman. She must either have been an elf, or an angel. Sherlock found himself in awe of her, until he remembered that he was far too sensible to be so wonderstruck by anybody. Except maybe John. He shook himself and rolled his eyes as the woman dramatically turned around to face Gandalf, the moon shining behind her like a halo of pale golden light.

Halo of pale golden light? When had his thoughts become so..... poetic? Romantic? Honestly. 

“What's going on?” John's voice startled Sherlock just a bit as the doctor came to stand at his side.  
“Secret meeting.” He looked at John, brows furrowing. “The dwarves are leaving.” It wasn't a question. Without another word, he turned on his heel and sped down the corridor, John hurrying to catch up.   
“Sherlock?”  
“The dwarves. They are departing. Best if we don't lose them, it'll be hard to catch up.”


	8. Conflict

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Hope you're still enjoying the silliness. Moving right along here, let's see how our favorite detective and doctor duo are handling Middle Earth. All mistakes are mine, many of them are intentional. 
> 
> Enjoy!

They hadn't gone far when Sherlock was suddenly wishing he and John had not managed to catch up with the dwarves at all. The sky had opened up into a torrential rain storm, complete with ground shaking thunder and lightning intense enough to illuminate everything around them. 

Not to mention the entire mountainside had decided to get up and begin a dodge ball match using boulders. 

“Are you sure she won't kill us?!” John shouted to a sopping wet Sherlock.  
Sherlock shook the wet hair from his eyes, only to be replaced by cascades of water. “I didn't think she would, but now I feel I must reconsider!”  
“What the hell are those things?!” John yelled at the nearest dwarf, Bifur, if he remembered correctly.  
Bifur signed frantically in Iglishmek, and John gave a frustrated sigh. “I wish I could understand him!”   
“So does the author,” Sherlock muttered as another clap of thunder and stomp of a stone giant shook the mountain, knocking Sherlock off his feet.  
“We'll be smashed!” John yelled. “Like bugs on a windshield! Sherlock, she's going to kill us!”   
“Leave it to a woman to be so dramatic,” Sherlock mumbled. A boulder hit the mountain just above them, and Sherlock had to pull John out of the way, lest he be crushed. For some reason, the dwarves seemed to stay clear of the mountainside projectiles.   
“Sherlock!” John yelled angrily, “Apologize!”  
Sherlock looked at John as though he had grown two heads. “For what? To who?”  
“You've pissed her off and now she's going to fucking kill us! Apologize!”  
“Oh!” Sherlock shook his head, then looked up at the sky, blinking against the onslaught of rain that seemed to soak through his skin. “Do you think that will help?” he asked as another thunderous stomp shook them off their feet.  
“Well it can't hurt, can it?” John yelled back.  
“I'm sorry alright?!” Sherlock shouted at the sky. “I'm sorry!”

The rain let up just a touch, and the stone giants seemed to calm down a bit. They sat down beside the mountain, settling carefully into the rock. 

“How did you do that?” a dwarf, Dori, demanded. “You are a wizard, aren't you?!”

“No,” Sherlock responded, clearly irritated at the suggestion. “I just know what's going on here.”

“And what exactly is that?” Thorin demanded as he stomped along the path in order to hover over Sherlock. 

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “We are-”  
“being watched,” John concluded, interrupting Sherlock before he could say something that may change the way the dwarves looked at them.   
“By who?” Thorin asked his head turning slightly and brow furrowed in suspicion.   
“Possibly a wizard?” John answered weakly as he helped Sherlock to his feet.  
Thorin narrowed his eyes. “Friend or foe?”  
“That depends on how you look at it,” Sherlock answered. “On one hand, the orcs somehow found us in that forest, of course that could be chalked up to good tracking. On the other hand, when I asked for help, the giants stopped their tantrum and the storm died down.”  
John nodded. “Friend.”  
“Most likely,” Sherlock agreed.  
The clouds lifted a bit, rain slowing to a light drizzle.  
“And I'm sure she's beautiful, smart, creative....” Sherlock exchanged a knowing grin with John as the sky finally cleared, the freshly revealed sun glistening over the sheen of rain on the stone.  
“Gorgeous, lovely, vibrant-” Sherlock's gushing was interrupted as a roll of ominous thunder sounded in the distance. He rolled his eyes. “Perhaps that was a bit overkill. Lead on, Master Oakenshield. Shouldn't be any more trouble here.”

* * * * *

The company had come to a halt, most of their number sitting on the cliff side and waiting for their leader to talk some sense into a determined, obnoxious Sherlock Holmes.

“I have great stone sense, and it tells me this is our best bet,” Thorin declared.  
“It's obviously a trap,” Sherlock countered, poking his head into the cave they had found.  
“Someone has rigged this cave to collapse with the sliding of a lever located somewhere below.”  
“How can you tell?” Bilbo asked innocently, suddenly appearing at Sherlock's side and leaning in to have a look.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving slightly into the mouth of the small cave. “Can you not see the way rock and dust has only settled along the walls? But there are marks where others have slid along the bottom and down, obviously, into some sort of underground cavern. Any idiot could see this is a trap.”

“Are you suggesting that I am an idiot?” Thorin challenged.

“That depends. Did you notice this was a trap?”

Thorin scowled, fury radiating from him in waves.

“Well then? Honestly, what kind of bone headed leader stomps around and barks orders at his men, expecting them to blindly obey if he can't even be trusted to recognize a simple trap? Does nobody else ever really see what it is they're looking at?”

John nudged the detective pointedly. “Sherlock?” he muttered in a warning tone.

“Really, how did your simple minded line ever come to leadership?” Sherlock continued, oblivious to the dwarf king's mounting rage.

“Sherlock?” John tried again, a bit louder.

“It is a miracle you're people have lasted as long as they have, given your obvious lack of common sense and complete disregard for-”

“Sherlock!” John grabbed the detective's arm, looking pointedly at the dwarves around them.  
Sherlock's eyes swept over the hostile dwarves, his brow furrowed in dismay.  
“Not good?”  
“A bit not good.”

“How dare you! How dare you disrespect the noble line of Durin the Deathless!” Thorin roared, outraged.

“I- well I didn't know him. Perhaps he had more sense than you,” Sherlock attempted to take back a bit of the insult to Thorin's line. “After all, if your father was from the line of Durin, perhaps it's your mother who was the idiot-”

The breath was knocked out of Sherlock's lungs as he was hit by something that felt an awful lot like a brick wall. Impossibly large fists connected with every inch of him, and then they were falling. Tangled limbs and sharp elbows plummeting down and down, then landing in a heap on a rickety wooden walkway. The dwarves struggled to clamber off of Sherlock, looking around in horror as the sound of thousands of clawed feet approached. Sherlock looked up, his eyes widening at the oncoming wave of goblins.   
“I told you it was a trap.”

* * * * *

Goblintown was not a place John would soon want to visit again. It was bad enough they were stuck traveling with ill tempered, smelly dwarves, but the gruesome, bloodthirsty villains they seemed to attract were beyond a doubt the worst creatures John had ever had the displeasure of seeing. 

The goblin king seemed to have taken a liking to Sherlock, a fact that made John want to gut the ugly walking pustule with his bare hands. He looked up again, to where the disgusting blob of a mutant was looking over Sherlock like a piece of meat. John's blood roared in his ears when the goblin king reached up and brushed his finger over Sherlock's cheek. He shoved his way through goblins and dwarves alike, pushing himself to Sherlock's side. 

“Don't you dare touch him!” John demanded, channeling his inner soldier. He stood, firm and proud between Sherlock and the horrid creature, finger pointed in the goblin's face, chin held high, meeting the yellowed gaze with an intense glare.

The goblin king gave a grotesque smirk, leveling John with an amused look. “Or what? Are you going to fight me?” the goblin sounded terribly condescending. “Are you going to hit me with your tiny fists? My hoard will devour you before you manage to take a step.”

Rage took over, and in a practiced and precise manuever, John pulled his gun from his waistband and without a second thought, buried a bullet in the goblin king's forehead. 

Everything froze. The goblin hoard watched as their king staggered on his feet, a bit comically.   
Or at least Sherlock thought so. He leaned in close to John, barely daring to whisper.  
“How many rounds do you have left?”  
John leaned back, hardly moving his lips. “Not nearly enough. Run?”  
“Run,” Sherlock muttered, then he turned to the dwarves around him. “Grab your weapons! Let's go!”

The cavern seemed to spring back to life. Dwarves dove for their weapons as goblins began to swarm. Sherlock stayed close to John, the soldier taking out every goblin that came close enough as they ran over wooden paths and bridges. 

“Bilbo!” Sherlock looked back at Thorin's shout, spying the hobbit being dragged away from the company. He glanced around quickly, scanning the area and weighing options.   
“John! John, shoot the top of the cavern! There! Where that stalactite juts down!”  
John looked up from where he had just punched a goblin off the path. “Are you crazy?! This place will come down on top of us!”  
“No, we'll make it! Just trust me!”

John shook his head, taking aim, then with a steady exhale, he pulled the trigger. The goblins holding Bilbo looked up as the ceiling began to fall, first in small pieces, and then larger chunks.

“Get Bilbo!!!” John shouted, even as Thorin grabbed the hobbit by the hand and yanked him to his feet. 

“Run!!!” Thorin roared, nearly dragging Bilbo behind him. 

The ceiling was collapsing in earnest, dust and rock billowing behind the dwarves as they ran. The path turned from wood to stone as they neared the wall of the cavern. It sloped down and Sherlock could already smell the fresh air at the other end. He led them all down and through a tunnel, coat swirling around his impossibly quick feet, until they came out on the other side of the mountain.

They found themselves in a small grouping of trees, panting and grateful to have escaped at all. Bombur and Balin collapsed on the ground, sprawling out to try to catch their breath. The rest of them leaned on tree trunks or braced their hands on their knees, breaths heaving and adrenaline rapidly dropping off. 

“Good thinking, John,” Sherlock said, patting his friend lightly on the shoulder. “But why, when the goblins took the dwarves weapons, did they not take your gun?”

John shrugged. “Dunno,” he panted. “Are you complaining?”  
Sherlock huffed a chuckle. “Yes and no. Doesn't make sense. But I'm glad they didn't.”  
“A goblin wouldn't know that piece of metal was a weapon,” Thorin interjected. “They wouldn't know they should have taken it.”  
Sherlock nodded. “Makes sense. Though I would think they should have at least been wary of being hit with it. It's a bit heavy.”   
Thorin frowned. “You're right. Why didn't they take it?”  
John shrugged again. “They didn't check me. Maybe they didn't think I was a threat.”  
“They didn't check me either,” Bilbo piped up, suddenly appearing at Thorin's side again.

Sherlock shook his head. He would just have to get used to the hobbit popping up out of nowhere. 

“What now?” Ori's small voice asked from behind the hobbit.  
“Now we make camp. Go see what you can find for fire wood,” Thorin responded.  
“I'll go with him,” Bilbo offered, turning to follow the other dwarves.

Thorin gave Bilbo a fond look as he left, then glanced up at Sherlock. “I owe you my thanks.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “What for?”  
“Your quick thinking saved Master Baggins.”  
Sherlock smirked. “Perhaps you will not kill me for insult to your lineage?”  
Thorin returned the smug grin. “At least not today.”

“Oh good! Looks like all the hard work has been done!” Gandalf's voice suddenly reached them as the old wizard strode toward them through the trees.   
Sherlock scowled. “Yes. Funny you missed all the death defying and excitement,” he snarled.   
Gandalf gave Sherlock that amused look that made the detective want to punch out his teeth. “Yes, well, the orc pack is still behind us. We will have to keep moving.”

As if on cue, the sound of barking and howling suddenly echoed over the mountains.

“Too late now,” Sherlock surmised. “John? You have any rounds left?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope I made you chuckle! More to come soon!


	9. Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovlies!!!  
So sorry for the long break. I recently started working full time again, and completely renovating my house. Needless to say, time to write is in very very short supply. Bare with me, I would never drop a fic, but it may take me quite some time to finish. I hope this chapter of giggles and ridiculousness makes up for it just a pinch.   
All mistakes are mine!  
Enjoy!

The pack of orc riders flew through the trees, kicking up rock and dirt in their wake. Excited growling and fierce snarls could be heard all the way at the top branches, where Sherlock, John, and the company now found themselves trapped. 

Sherlock looked around. How on Earth had that fat dwarf (Bounder? Booger?) managed to shimmy so high up in the trees and how the hell was that branch holding him? And more importantly, how long did they have before the trees began to....

Sherlock's figuring was interrupted by the crack of the nearest trees began to fall.

Well this was just great. He and John had managed to escape death countless times in the real world, but apparently this was where their luck would run out. Sherlock looked around the cliff side. There was no conceivable way they were going to survive this. John had a few rounds left, true enough, but it wouldn't be adequate to stop the entire pack from devouring every one of them. And it would do nothing to stop them from plummeting to their inevitable death.

A blazing pine cone flew past Sherlock's head, bouncing across the ground and catching the surrounding grass on fire. The closest wargs huffed and growled, backing away from the flame. Sherlock glanced around, amused when he spotted Gandalf lighting more pine cones aflame. 

So the old man wasn't completely useless after all. Sherlock watched the wizard juggle the pine cones. His fingers should be burnt. Why wasn't he burning his fingers? The pine cones were on fire for Christ's sake. And the dwarves caught them as though they were nothing. Dwarves were miners. Perhaps they didn't feel heat like a man did? That was preposterous. 

“Sherlock!” John's panicked voice called from the detective's side, “Sherlock the tree!”  
Sherlock glared down at the warg that was currently attacking their perch. Their tree was already mostly uprooted, inevitably they would have to jump to the closest one beside it. Sherlock grabbed John's hand and as the tree began to fall, the two leapt into the boughs of the next. 

This was impossible. No matter how Sherlock looked at it, there should be no way all seventeen of them could logically manage to fit in one tree. But there they sat, waiting for the inevitable moment when they would either plummet to their death or be eaten. The tree began to fall, and the dwarves all let out screams as it jerked to a stop hanging over the edge of the cliff. 

Really? There was no way the tree could balance on the ledge with as much weight as was on it. Sherlock shook his head. This was not the time to become agitated with impossibilities. He looked around from where he clung to the trunk of the tree. Dwarves hung everywhere, holding on for dear life. All but Thorin Oakenshield, who was marching down the trunk to go face the pale orc on his own. 

“Idiot,” Sherlock muttered as he pulled himself to his feet. “John?” he looked around, spotting John and then pulled him up. “We should probably help him. Think you can manage to hit that big white bastard?”

John shrugged. “No problem.” Before he could shoot, Bilbo had run into his line of fire, and was now facing off with the orcs.  
Sherlock groaned in annoyance. “Should've counted on that. Rookie mistake. Of course the little hobbit would want to save his would be lover. Dammit!”   
“Would be lover? Thorin hates that hobbit.”   
“Never mind. What now?”  
An ear splitting screech cut off the potential answer, and John and Sherlock looked up at the giant eagles swooping overhead.   
“Oh now that's just ridiculous,” Sherlock complained. He looked on, frustrated but relieved, as the dwarves were scooped up and flown off into the night. 

“Sherlock?” John grabbed Sherlock's hand without thinking, and took a few steps toward the cliff edge. “Shall we?”  
“Yes, I suppose so,” Sherlock sighed, “I'm sure she'll see to it that we don't fall to our death. Ready?”   
John nodded, refusing to relinquish his hold on Sherlock's hand, and the two of them stepped off the cliff. They landed hard, the breath rushing from their lungs as the sound of rustling wings met them. They were airborne. 

* * * * *

Sherlock stood fuming, his back to a pillar in the great skin-changer's kitchen. Through the spectacle after they had landed, in which Thorin embraced Bilbo, all sunny eyed and horridly romantic, Sherlock had barely contained his anger. The moment the dwarf and hobbit had their moment, Sherlock had gone off on Gandalf, accusing him of leaving them to the goblins, then demanding an explanation as to why the eagles couldn't have taken them straight to Erebor themselves. 

Gandalf hadn't had an answer, at least not one that Sherlock thought was more than an absolute load of horse shit, and so he had stormed off fuming. He had been distant and short tempered the last few days, and meeting the skin-changer hadn't helped. 

Beorn was not a fan of Sherlock, or Thorin it seemed, but he had gotten along quite well with Bilbo and John. The two had been helping Beorn in the kitchen for the better part of the last hour, and Sherlock and Thorin were getting quite tired of being ignored.

Thorin stood, shoulders hunched, arms crossed angrily over his chest as he and Sherlock glared daggers at Beorn, who was puttering about the kitchen. John and Bilbo flitted about, far too excited to be helping. 

“I don't like him,” Thorin muttered to Sherlock, breaking the silence.   
“Nor do I,” the detective agreed. “He is a foul tempered one.”  
Thorin smirked. “Some would argue the same of us. Besides, you spouted off every failing he's had since birth, and brought to everyone's attention the guilt and anguish he lives with on a daily basis.”   
“I didn't say anything that was untrue.”  
“You called him a half breed dog shortly after. Did you expect him to react kindly?”  
“Again. I didn't say anything that was untrue,” Sherlock argued.  
“He turns into a bear, not a dog,” Thorin disagreed.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Makes no difference. Still a lot of hair, a lot of teeth, and a horrid wet dog smell.”  
Thorin shook his head with a smirk. “He does not look like one I would make an enemy of.”  
“Lucky for me, nearly everyone I meet becomes an enemy. What's one more?”  
Thorin shifted uncomfortably. “You are no enemy of dwarves.”  
Sherlock quirked a grin, shifting his gaze away. “But you couldn't say I'm a friend.”  
Thorin chuckled. “No. No, I wouldn't go that far! You did insult my father. And then my mother.”  
“Ah, so I did. I would apologize for saying that, but I have no proof that I was wrong. Instead, I will offer my apologies that you took offense, though that is not my fault nor is it my problem.”  
Thorin scowled at the man. “You're a right prick, you know that?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh please. Tell me one I haven't heard.”  
“You're no better than a beardless pointy eared elf.”  
Sherlock grinned. “Now that is a new one. Usually I get something along the lines of 'shut up, you absolute wanker'.”  
“How about 'you couldn't forge a spoon'.”  
“That one is simply true.”  
“Your mother was an orc?”  
Sherlock shrugged. “Sometimes, I suppose she can be.”  
“My grandmother is a better warrior than you.”  
“Again, simply true.” Sherlock gave Thorin a challenging grin.  
Thorin's smile grew. “You smell like orc dung! May Mahal piss on your forge!”  
Sherlock laughed, Thorin chuckling along with him. Bilbo and John looked up at the unfamiliar sound, eyes wide and mouths agape.

“Sherlock?” John sounded concerned, which only made Sherlock and Thorin laugh harder. Thorin patted Sherlock's back, holding his stomach as his laughter died off.   
Sherlock looked at John, a large grin still plastered on his face. John couldn't help but to smile back, meeting those pale blue eyes.

“Master Baggins?” Thorin's voice made John and Sherlock jump. “May I..... speak to you a moment?”  
“Of course.” Bilbo's brow furrowed slightly, and he hesitantly followed Thorin out of the room.   
“Erm... I believe I'm in need of a good washing,” John suddenly declared.  
“There is a river out back,” the deep, rough voice of the skin-changer rolled from the other side of the room. “You may bathe there, if you'd like.”  
John nodded. “A-alright. Thank you.” He hesitated for a moment, then stepped around Sherlock and headed for the back door.  
“You'd better go with him,” Beorn said, giving Sherlock a sidelong glance. “None of you should walk alone outside of these walls.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, then spun on his heel and followed John out into the night. Perhaps he would finally be able to get out his sexual frustrations. The close brushes with death they had had since their departure from Rivendell had certainly pushed any thoughts of seducing John from his mind, but now that the adrenaline had subsided, Sherlock found himself overwhelmed by John's presence once again. 

Sherlock followed the moonlit path out through the back garden. He kicked at the rocks that littered the ground, frustrated with his situation. He thought about how he would bring up the subject with John again, and felt maybe this time, John would be more open to seduction. After all, near death experience often led to lowered inhibitions, much like alcohol consumption. 

Sherlock's thoughts abruptly stopped, his mind turned to mush as the river came into view. John stood at the water's edge, completely naked, back to Sherlock, the moonlight dancing over his porcelain skin and illuminating his golden gray hair. Sherlock didn't even care that his thoughts were uncharacteristically poetic. He took in a sharp breath, then exhaled a groan in pain of longing. Without a second thought, he began stripping off his clothes, dropping them to the ground as he approached the river. John's glorious body was now hidden under the silvery surface of the water. It lapped and rocked around his shoulders, the moonlight reflecting onto John's face. 

Sherlock scrambled to remove his shoes, his stomach clenching as he heard John give a satisfied sigh. 

John's eyes were closed, head tilted slightly back as he let the water soothe him. His eyes snapped open at the sound splashing as Sherlock entered the river. His breath caught and his heart doubled pace at the sight of Sherlock, pale skin nearly luminescent in the light of the moon, water caressing him up to his prominent hip bones and thin waist, surprising muscle flexing as Sherlock waded in deeper. John tried not to whine out loud as more and more of that alabaster skin disappeared under the water's surface. 

Sherlock grinned wolfishly at John's obvious approval. The doctor's jaw nearly dropped into the water as he ogled Sherlock openly. 

“John?” Sherlock's face his none of his amusement.  
John snapped his mouth shut, shaking his head a bit. He closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. When he opened them, he was surprised to find Sherlock directly in front of him, so close he could see the water running in rivulets from Sherlock's curls. 

Sherlock furrowed his brow for a moment. When had he gotten his hair wet? Was that really necessary? He schooled his features. No matter. The only thing he should be focusing on now was John. He brought his hands up hesitantly to take John's face in his hands. When there was no protest, he leaned in, stopping when he could feel John's breath whisper over his lips. It was now or never. He closed the distance, pressing their mouths together in a heated kiss, slow but deep. 

John reached up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and pulled their bodies flush together. 

Finally. Finally, Sherlock was convinced he would get his way. He would get off with John, and his mind would be free to process, to focus, without his friend, his doctor, his soldier distracting him so terribly. He brought his hands down, settling them at the small of John's back and thrusted his hips forward. John moaned, and so Sherlock repeated the motion, both now moving against each other. 

John leaned back, his pupils blown and breaths coming out in rough pants. He brought his hand down, letting it brush teasingly over Sherlock's length. 

Sherlock sighed. Yes! Yes, things were going exactly as he had hoped. He let his eyes fall closed and moaned as John began to stroke.

“Oh! Oh John!” Sherlock called out, the exclamation surprising him as much as it befuddled him. “Oh John yes! Ah! Yes!”  
What the fuck was he saying? He would never.... “Oh GOD! More! Harder!”   
This was like bad porno dialogue.   
“Does that feel good baby?” John asked redundantly.  
Why would John say that? Why was he talking this way? Why would he need to? Wasn't it obvious?  
“Yea, you like that?” What the actual fuck. This was absolutely ridiculous. 

“Stop talking,” Sherlock finally felt a bit more in control of the stupidity falling out of his mouth, until he moaned “faster!” a little too desperately.

Oh for fucks sake, could he just cum already? This was getting tedious.

The familiar clench of heat began to coil low in his belly, whatever the fuck that meant, and finally Sherlock was coming over John's fingers and into the water, screaming John's name, because apparently, coming with a roar was saved for Thorin Oakenshield. 

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's, letting his breathing calm and his heart rate slow. “Thank you, John,” he breathed, then turned to get out of the water.  
“WHAT?! Where are you going?!” John demanded.   
Sherlock gave him a perplexed look. “My ridiculous sex drive has been quelled. Now I can focus and figure out how to get us out of this mess.”  
“Are you serious?” John was clearly quite put out, and Sherlock for the life of him couldn't figure out why.   
“Of course. I am quite serious, why wouldn't I be?”  
John didn't answer. Instead, he stormed passed Sherlock determinedly, exiting the water and taking up his clothes. He pulled on pants and trousers, then turned and leveled Sherlock with an furious glare. “You- you absolute bloody arsehole!”  
“John?” How had he managed to pull up his trousers with wet legs? Oh. He was suddenly dry. Except his hair. Of course.  
“Sod this. Sod this, sod you and... fuck off!” With that overdone slew of angry profanity, John stormed off in fury.

“You're going about this all the wrong way,” a voice startled Sherlock from staring off where John had disappeared.  
“Going about what? I have no idea what you're talking about.”  
Nori chuckled, coming out from behind a tree. “Even our 'idiot' king has figured out the best way to win the affections of his intended.”  
Sherlock followed Nori's gaze to where Thorin was strolling through the moonlit garden, Bilbo's hand in the crook of his elbow. Sherlock frowned. “How did he do that?”  
“Bilbo has a soft spot for food. Thorin invited him to a midnight picnic.”  
“And he just told you this?”  
“Of course not. I have my ways of finding these things out.”  
Sherlock gave him a doubtful look.  
“Not like you, no. My methods are much more...”  
“Sneaky?” Sherlock smirked as Nori gave him an amused look.  
“Yes. I suppose one might say that.”  
“Don't think I haven't noticed you, lurking in the shadows where you think no one can see,” Sherlock said with a smirk.  
“You don't miss anything, do you? But, for such a genius, has it not occurred to you that maybe you should be trying to show your appreciation for John, instead of constantly trying to charm his pants off? And for your own benefit? Maybe, you should be thinking about what he needs, not what it takes to get him naked.”  
Sherlock frowned.   
“He likes you. It's obvious. But it seems all you want is his body. Isn't there more to John Watson than that? Does he mean anything to you at all?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please please please let me know if you're still following this! More soon, I promise!


	10. Making Amends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! Hope you haven't given up on me updating! Every other week is about all I can manage at present. If even that. It's killing me honestly. I don't get to write any more nearly as much as I want to. Hopefully I will find a better balance in the future. But for now, don't give up on me! I'm still here!
> 
> Enjoy!

After Nori had left Sherlock standing by the river, feeling rather like a giant arsehole, the detective had decided to walk along the river bank and further consider the thief's words. The more he thought on it, the worse he felt. He had utterly and completely used John, and been unaware he was doing so in the moment. Had he truly always been this selfish? He had always considered himself a sociopath, but apparently, he had been wrong, at least in this universe. The writer clearly wanted him to have emotions, and feelings of guilt were not anything he was used to. 

Of course John meant more to him than what his body could offer. He... well, he loved John.   
Ugh. How cliché. But true. He did. Sherlock loved John. Perhaps he should actually try making John happy, and find out what he needed. 

With this decided, Sherlock made his way towards the house. A roar through the trees startled him, until he remembered.   
Thorin Oakenshield always came with a roar. 

* * * * *

Sherlock had thought long and hard all through the night about what he might be able to do for John that was a little more personal. He thought about the things the doctor liked, and it took several hours to get past “brunette with perky tits.” He couldn't very well hire John a hooker, for one thing there were no beings with breasts anywhere nearby, at least not that he'd seen, and for another thing, it would completely defeat the purpose of his gift. 

It was interesting, shortly after midnight, when Sherlock finally gave up any pretense of sleep and rose from his bedroll (what even was a bedroll? A big blanket? Why didn't they just call it that?) and found a beautifully knit sweater folded and set at the foot of his cot. (Cot? Wasn't that just a bedroll on the floor? Had he slept on a cot all night? Then how did he end up waking in a bedroll?) Sherlock was getting quite fed up with the inconsistencies that were occurring daily at this point, but he figured he had best take the sweater for what it was. A gift. One he could give John, who would undoubtedly act favorably to it, considering it was John's favorite color. 

Sherlock picked up the sweater and ran a hand over the stitching. It was beautifully made. Not that Sherlock had an abundance of knowledge on the subject, but it felt sturdy and warm. The perfect gift, as winter was fast approaching. Now all he needed was tea. John was quite fond of tea, and he had been lamenting the lack of it for quite some time. 

Come to think of it, so had the hobbit. Why that point was relevant was beyond Sherlock, and that kind of pissed him off. 

Sherlock shook the feeling and folded the blue sweater over his arm. Perhaps Beorn would have tea he could offer John. 

* * * * *

It was nearly dawn when Sherlock lowered himself at John's side. He gently set his hand on the doctor's shoulder, shaking him gently, which was a redundant use of the word 'gently' and frankly it had lost all meaning after he repeated it in his head. His lips quirked in a grin as he watched John wrinkle his nose, frowning slightly. 

“John. Wake up, John,” Sherlock whispered.  
“Hm?” John squinted up at Sherlock, his face going from curious to livid within the span of a few seconds. “It's too early for your bull shit, Sherlock.” John wrapped the blanket tighter around him and flung himself down, turning to face the wall.

“I need you to come with me. I have something for you,” Sherlock tried again.  
“I don't need anything from you,” John harrumphed. 

Sherlock grimaced. Ugh. He had so hoped he would be able to apologize privately. Unfortunately, it seemed he would have to do it here, in front of the company. Thankfully, it seemed most were sleeping, and the ones that had risen early were already off in the kitchen. 

Sherlock sighed. “John, I- I apologize for... for my actions last night. I was selfish.”  
“And?” John urged.  
“And cruel,” Sherlock added.  
“And?”   
“And...” Sherlock swallowed thickly at the discomfort of being so forward with his feelings. “And you mean so much more to me than that.”

Curious blue eyes trapped Sherlock in an intense stare as John rolled to face him. “I'm listening.”

* * * * *

Sherlock closed the door behind him, taking a moment to lean up against the coarse wood and suck in a deep and calming breath.  
It didn't do him much good.  
He approached John, who now stood facing him, arms crossed over his chest like a protective armor, jaw clenched and eyes wary.   
“What do you need to say then?” John asked, his voice wavering as he attempted an indifferent tone.

In lieu of an answer, Sherlock picked up a wrapped parcel and handed it to John, who took it cautiously in his shaking hands. 

John looked down at the brown paper and twine in his hands, then glanced up at Sherlock warily.

“Oh for goodness sake, John, just open it.”

John nodded, still looking uncertain, and took a seat on the edge of the bed. He began working at the twine, untying the carefully done up knots until he could pull the paper free, revealing the gorgeous purple sweater inside. 

Purple? Hadn't it been blue?

John huffed a little chuckle. “It's my favorite color.”  
“I thought blue was your favorite color?” Sherlock at John quizzically, then glanced back down. The sweater was green. What? He looked up again, then back down at the sweater. It was John's favorite color.   
Sherlock looked up in exasperation. “Oh honestly, you have no idea what his favorite color is, do you?” He mumbled. He shook his head and lowered his gaze back to John. “Looks like she's decided green is your favorite color.”  
“Erm... Where did you get that shirt?”

Sherlock looked down at himself. He was wearing that dark purple shirt he so loved. The one that always made John do a double take. He had no idea how it got there, but figured it had something to do with the author's obvious obsession with him. The top two buttons of the shirt were undone, revealing the porcelain skin of Sherlock's firm chest. 

Sherlock was quite flattered. He looked up at John and grinned. “I'll be keeping this shirt.”

John licked his lips and nodded, then tried desperately to look at anything but Sherlock's exposed chest. “Yes... yes it's always been one of my favorites.”

Sherlock grinned. “I know.”

“So....” John looked back up at Sherlock, trying pointedly not to stare at the bare flesh of the detective's torso, “so why this? Why... what exactly are you trying to say to me?”

Sherlock sighed, taking a seat next to John. “I'm trying to tell you... that I'm sorry. Which is...” Sherlock glanced at the ceiling and shook his head, “very difficult for me.” His eyes met John's. They were a sea of blue, vast and deep and...... ugh. Why all the poetics? His eyes were blue and Sherlock was quite fond of them. The author's need to set such a ridiculously romantic tone was starting to wear on Sherlock's nerves. He cleared his throat and tried to continue. 

“You... you are very important to me. I needed to tell you that. That and, I am very fond of you, John. I know my actions of late probably have not been very convincing, but I assure you, you mean more to me than a quick orgasm in the river.”

John chuckled, ducking his head and dropping his gaze. Sherlock was surprised when the doctor turned and met his gaze again, setting a hand on Sherlock's knee.   
“It's alright. I accept your apology. Perhaps you can make it up to me?”

Sherlock grinned deviously. “I would be delighted,” he purred. He let his eyes fall closed as John leaned in, pressing his lips to Sherlock's gently. Sherlock slid his fingers into John's hair and tilted his head slightly, parting his lips as John pulled away. They stared at each other for a moment, both questioning, both waiting as they shared the tense air between them. 

John caved first, crashing his lips into Sherlock's and delving in to taste every inch of his mouth. Sherlock pulled John onto his lap, the doctor spreading his legs and slotting their bodies together tightly. Sherlock groaned, arching up into John, who gasped and pressed down into him. Sherlock's hands dropped to grasp at John's thighs and urged him to rock, faster and harder. Sherlock threw his head back, a lewd groan escaping his lips as John's thighs began to tremble against him. 

There was a knock at the door. “John? Sherlock?”  
“BUGGER OFF!” Sherlock yelled as he felt John tense under his hands. Nobody was going to interrupt this time. Nothing was going to stop them from finding a little relief. It wasn't exactly what Sherlock had in mind, but he wasn't about to waste it. He took in every detail. The look in John's eyes as he approached his peak, the pink of his cheeks, his jaw going slack, eyes pinching shut as it hit him. He moaned obscenely, and Sherlock found himself following him over the edge. 

Sherlock shook himself. John's head was on his shoulder, and the two of them were laying on the bed. John was still straddling Sherlock, their chests pressed together as they struggled to catch their breath. There was a banging on the door, no doubt by the wizard's staff.

“If you two are quite finished fooling around in there, we need to be heading off!” Gandalf's voice was firm, but Sherlock didn't think the wizard was angry.

Not that he cared.

“I dare say we better pack quickly,” John said easily.  
Sherlock nodded. “And find a change of pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! They finally managed a little something together!   
What do you think John's favorite color actually is? I submit it is the exact same shade of blue as Sherlock's eyes. But maybe I'm projecting.   
Let me know how you're liking is so far!


	11. POV Alternating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! This chapter is a bit short, but hopefully it will make you smile. Lord knows we could all use a little bit of humor right now.

The company left Beorn's with a general heaviness weighing on them. It was comforting to know they would be on their way, and closer to the mountain, but the warmth and safety of the shape shifters cottage would be sorely missed. Nobody was too keen on going back to everyone chasing and trying to kill them. Not that John was complaining. At least, not out loud.

John Watson was an adrenaline junky. He loved running for his life, so long as there was a certain detective running alongside him. Sherlock had breathed life back into him, convinced him it was worth living for. John often wondered if Sherlock had known how close John had been. How meaningless his life had felt. 

Of course he had known.

Great. His thoughts seemed messy and poorly worded in his head again, as though they were written haphazardly across a page where someone was desperately trying to line them up, but was doing so too hastily to make them flow properly. That kept happening. Strange. Perhaps Sherlock would have a theory on it. He would probably say something about it being the author being too stupid and in a hurry to give John's thoughts much... thought.

John shook the thought away. He glanced at Sherlock from the back of his pony and grinned. He really did look ridiculous, all long awkward limbs hanging from a creature that by all rights shouldn't be able to carry such a tall man so carelessly. Though, as Sherlock kept reminding John, they were in a fanfic. John wasn't entirely sure what exactly that meant, only that they were in some kind of story, written by a woman, and somehow, it was fictional. John didn't feel fictional. He felt quite real, thank you very much. And frankly, so did Sherlock. Particularly when he was beneath John, breathing labored, lips slightly parted.... John shook his head again as he heard chuckling from in front of him. He furrowed his brow and watched as Nori gave Sherlock a lascivious wink. What was... oh. John had been staring at Sherlock intensely for the last several minutes, and clearly Nori had noticed. Did Nori know? Well, so what if he did. John really didn't much care.

“So, Master Baggins...” a voice began beside him. “Oh! So sorry John. I thought you were our burglar!” Bofur nodded his apology and rode forward to catch up with the hobbit. 

John scowled at Sherlock as the detective muffled his laughter into his fist. Stupid git. He didn't understand why Sherlock found such amusement in the fact that John had been mistaken for Bilbo several times now, nor who Martin Freeman was or what he had to do with it. Honestly, most everything was maddening, if he took the time to analyze it too much. 

So he didn't.

It was nearing nightfall when they stopped to make camp on the outskirts of a thick and foreboding forest, and the horses were getting restless. John could have sworn the horses were much smaller when they had started off from Beorn's, but clearly he was mistaken. How, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was when they finally got down off their horses and set to make a meal for the evening, he was very grateful. His legs were sore and he was famished. He sat on the cold ground while Gloin and Bombur set about lighting a fire. It wasn't long before a certain hobbit came to sit with him. 

“Nice night,” Bilbo said conversationally.   
“Yes. It is,” the silence between them was companionable, as though they had known each other their entire lives. 

“Oi, Bilbo!” Kili's voice perked up the hobbits ears. He and John looked over at Kili and Fili, who were grinning far to widely to be innocent.   
“Are you going to have a bit to eat? Or are you going to skip tonights meal and jump right to having Uncle for dessert?!”   
The joke was cheesy at best, but still it was met with quite a few chuckles.  
“Kili!” Thorin's voice was a command and a warning in one. He glared at Kili as he strode through camp, making his way over to where Gandalf and Sherlock stood in what appeared to be a heated debate outside the light of the fire.

“Does that bother you?” John asked Bilbo, nodding his head toward the princes.  
“What, Kili and Fili?” Bilbo shook his head with a grin. “No. They're just boys, by all rights. It's just a bit of fun. They mean no harm. Better they are laughing at my expense than fretting over entering the forest tomorrow like the rest of them are.”  
“They're afraid of the forest?” John asked in confusion. “They didn't seem so afraid in the forest we met up with you in.”  
“This one is different. The air is stagnant and the trees are sick.” Bilbo sighed as he shook his head. “There is something evil in that forest.”

John frowned. An evil forest wasn't exactly something he thought possible. Sure, there were bad people in the world. But how could a forest be sick from evil? That seemed far too narrow minded for him. Surely there was some kind of actual disease in the vegetation making the forest seem sick and evil. That had to be it. 

“So,” Bilbo began, changing the subject, “how are things with your bad mannered friend, then?”  
“Oh, Sherlock?”  
“Yes. Are the two of you..... an item?”  
John furrowed his brow. “I- I don't really know.”  
“I see. He's a..... he's an interesting fellow, that Sherlock Holmes.” Bilbo cleared his throat. “Bit of a prick, too.”  
John grinned. “Sherlock is.... Sherlock is very different from most,” he explained. “He often times doesn't care if he hurts peoples feelings, and I think that is simply because he so frequently doesn't realize that he's doing it, so if he were to feel bad about it, he would feel bad all the time. Sherlock's brain doesn't work like most peoples, it's......” John shook his head, unable to find a proper description. He let his shoulders drop and huffed. “It's beautiful. His mind. The way it works,” he gave Bilbo a nervous grin and shook his head.  
Bilbo nodded encouragingly.  
“It's beautiful and brilliant and sometimes quite frightening.” John sighed. “And yes. He is a right prick.”  
The two of them laughed, a bit of the tension from their previous conversation loosening its hold. 

“Fucking idiot with a pointy hat!” John and Bilbo both jumped as Sherlock stormed across camp, his swirling Belstaff sweeping dangerously close to the flames of the campfire.  
“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked.  
“He waves around a walking stick and pretends to be all knowing! Then how can he possibly not know how very screwed we will be, once he leaves us?!”  
“Screwed? Why?” John shook his head. “It's a forest, Sherlock. We have enough weapons between us all for protection and food.”  
Sherlock whirled around to face him. “How do you not understand? We are in a fictional story written by an imaginative and bored woman who clearly thrives on drama and romance. Who knows what she will decide to subject us to!! A wizard is about all that could possibly save us now!”

John frowned. So, it had happened. It had finally happened. Sherlock had lost his fucking mind. Though, to be fair, John had that thought several times in the past, and to be honest, Sherlock constantly seemed to lose his mind. So what did it matter really? 

“Sherlock, I'm sure we will be fine. You said so yourself, she won't really hurt us,” John soothed. Sherlock gave him a sidelong glare in lieu of a response before stomping off across camp to sulk.

“Is he always like that?” Bilbo asked softly.  
“No. Most times he's worse.”

* * * * *

John lay awake for quite some time that night. He thought about what he and Bilbo had talked about. 

Were he and Sherlock “dating”? Where they a couple? Would Sherlock even be open to or capable of having a relationship with someone? Would he even want to? John hoped so. He had been waiting for Sherlock for a very long time, convinced the man was incapable of love. It didn't take long for John to realize that was not the case, but he had never been too sure how deep Sherlock's regard for him went. Even now, after they had shared in moment of passion, (when had John ever thought of it that way? How strange), and after Sherlock had taken the time to come and apologize to John, something he had NEVER done in the past, John still had his reservations. How could he be sure Sherlock truly cared for him? How could he ever really know? After all, Sherlock was an amazing actor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang in there, world! I hope you are all well. Please take care of yourselves.   
-Mama


	12. Love at First Sight

The forest was thick, the air heavy and damp as it pressed in on the company. The first couple days, the dwarves held light conversation, trying to keep themselves distracted from the strange smothering feeling. By the third day, the group remained silent. The only words uttered were hushed whispers, questions of which way to go and when to stop for a rest. The silence gave John time to ponder on his relationship with Sherlock. He thought on their interactions since they had come to Middle Earth, and found himself wishing he had a Mind Palace to sort it all out. It was afternoon when the fogginess of the forest overwhelmed him and he finally gave up and decided to spend the rest of the day taking in their surroundings. 

“Give up finally?” Sherlock asked quietly from John's side.  
“Oh. What?” John gave Sherlock confused frown.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh come now, John. You've spent the majority of your time since we entered this forest pondering your feelings for me.”  
John swallowed and nodded jerkily.  
“And?”  
“And.....”  
“What have you concluded from your analysis?”  
John sighed deeply. “I... care for you...”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. “Generic. Try again.”  
John stopped with a frustrated groan. “Why don't you just tell me what the hell you want me to say? What answer are you looking for, then?”

Sherlock turned to face John's annoyed gaze. He stopped and stood in place, letting those hardened eyes pierce his own. Sherlock's gaze dropped to watch John lick his parted lips. “Look, I don't want to do this now, Sherlock. This forest, the way the dwarves are in here, it's..... messing with me, okay? I don't... I don't want to try to break down my emotions when I'm feeling so on edge. Does that make sense to you?”

Sherlock held John's gaze and worked his mouth for a minute, searching for a response. “John, I....” he felt himself being drawn toward the shorter man. He took a step closer and floundered again. Why were words eluding him? All he wanted was to press himself close, feel John against him again, reassure himself that John was there- Sherlock frowned. Why wouldn't he be there? What kind of... Oh. That damn woman.

John leaned in slightly as he felt Sherlock's coat brush against his hand. They were close enough John could feel each breath, see the rising pulse in Sherlock's neck as his eyes hardened and he clenched his jaw and spun away, stomping off to catch up with the dwarves mumbling something about “stupid romantic fic” and “silly female's idea of romance”. 

What happened? Hadn't they been sharing a moment? Why was that so very terrible? 

John shoved his hands in his pockets and followed Sherlock back to the group. The dwarves seemed to have decided to settle in for the night. They were attempting to build a fire, but John couldn't bring himself to watch. He was too busy being angry to really care what else was happening at the moment. Their food supply was low, and so he knew there was nothing to be done about his empty belly, which did nothing to help his foul mood. He was staring off into the dark spaces between the trees when he saw glowing eyes looking back at him. He scrambled to his feet and backed away, closer to the fire. 

“Sherlock?” he whispered as he found the detective sitting nearby. “Sherlock?” he tapped the detective on the shoulder. “Something is following us.”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't let these dwarves and their silly notions scare you. What we need to be doing is keeping an eye out for what our dear author has in store for us next.”  
“No, I saw it. Glowing yellow eyes there between the trees,” John argued.   
“Any number of creatures have eyes that will reflect light in the dark,” Sherlock reassured.  
“I'm telling you, there were more than two, and they were too close together to be multiple beings. It was one creature, many eyes.”  
“Aye,” a voice grumbled from Sherlock's other side. Dwalin shifted so he was facing the other two and set his hand on his knee. “I saw it too.” He shifted his eyes around the trees surrounding them on all sides. “We aren't alone.” 

* * * * *

Sherlock awoke to the sensation of falling, a common dream for many, and a common way of being jerked into consciousness by an overactive mind. He made to reach for his phone on the nightstand, but found his arm was pinned over his chest. He opened his eyes to discover he was wrapped in a sort of white sheer material. 

Ah yes, Middle Earth. What living nightmare had he been thrust into this time? He hadn't been so covered in sheer material since he had taken dance classes when he was...  
Dance classes? Oh really, of all the flights of female fancy! Him, in a dance class? Though he did look rather fetching in a pair of tights- “Sherlock!” John's voice rang through the cocoon as the doctor pulled the white material from Sherlock's face. He reached out and took Sherlock's hand, helping him to his feet.   
“You alright?” John asked, a bit breathlessly.  
“Yes,” Sherlock gasped a bit too dramatically as he looked around.   
Webs. Big, thick, sticky webbing coated the bottom of the trees, which meant......

“Look out!” Kili's voice alerted the others as he pulled back his bow and fired an arrow into an eye of the giant spider that had snuck up on them. 

“Bugger,” John muttered in awe as more replaced the first. “Come on, this way!” John turned and ran towards the others, away from the approaching arachnids. “Sherlock?” John looked back when he realized the detective wasn't following. “Sherlock!”   
The dark haired man stood frozen, as though he had been petrified to the ground where he stood. 

The next events happened quite quickly. John moved at the same time as Thorin, Fili, and Dwalin. They darted towards Sherlock, John grabbing the mans hand and yanking him back as the dwarves cut down the nearest spiders, who had been only moments from reaching Sherlock. 

John and Sherlock tumbled to the ground as pandemonium erupted around them. Bilbo and the dwarves had surrounded them, taking up arms against the spiders and keeping John and Sherlock from being harmed as the doctor tried to shake the detective from his stupor. 

“Sherlock!!!” John smacked the man's cheek lightly. Sherlock blinked rapidly, finally seeming to snap out of it. “Arachnophobia? You?”  
Sherlock nodded breathlessly. “Apparently.”  
“Well get up or you'll be eaten by your worst nightmare!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but followed John's command. He had just managed to dodge a wild swing from Dwalin's war hammer, when there was a flurry of movement from in the trees. 

“Elves!” Thorin's voice was frantic, as though he were threatened by the mere presence of elves in their midst. Sherlock couldn't find anything within him but relief. The elves made quick work of the remaining spiders, wiping them out and chasing the few left off into the darkness of the trees. 

“Help!” Kili's voice called from somewhere off to the left. The left of who? They weren't all facing the same direction. Why the hell did Sherlock seem to hear the narration of this bullshit in his head?

A beautiful, graceful, impossibly strong and nimble elf slid down a tree trunk, doing a few ridiculous flips and easily killed the spider that held the dwarf prince. The absolutely soppy look in Kili's eyes nearly made Sherlock nauseous. For crying out loud, the boy was nearly drooling at her feet. Sherlock turned to share his assessment with John, but he had already noticed. And he was grinning like fool. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Love at first sight. Honestly.


	13. Jealousy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret nothing.

Sherlock was disgusted. He was many things; tired, hungry, probably pretty smelly, but he was also very disgusted. Tauriel and Kili had flirted and bantered the entire way to the elven kingdom, which Sherlock had no idea the name of, or if it had a name, and that was probably because the author had had so many strawberry margaritas, she couldn't really think straight. But that is besides the point. Beside. Was beside the point. Is? Was? Not the point.

Kili had continuously pushed to get the attention of the red haired elf maiden, and she had been helpless to rebuff his advances. Of course, the glaring death looks shot at the two of them by the elf prince Legolas should have stopped anyone with half a brain in their tracks. But therein lie the problem. Kili was an idiot and didn't even have half a brain. Frankly, all the dwarves were idiots as far as Sherlock was concerned. And anyway, his only concern was John who- oh. Who was once again grinning at the elf and dwarf who were flirting like morons. 

“John?” Sherlock elbowed his friend, attempting to pull his attention from the disgusting display of romance blossoming like a nauseating garden, an analogy Sherlock couldn't help but grin at.   
“What?” John snapped, a bit annoyed at the probable bruising he would have on his ribs.   
“Control your sentimental self, if you please.”  
John's frown deepened. “What are you talking about?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You're obvious approval of ridiculous romantic notions.” Sherlock nodded towards Kili and Tauriel, who were nearly bumping in to each other as they walked.  
John huffed in annoyance. “Kili is a good kid! And- and she is gorgeous. Come on Sherlock, even you could see that. I'm happy for them!”  
Sherlock stopped in his tracks. “Gorgeous?”  
It was John's turn to roll his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock, I happen to notice when someone is gorgeous, and she is most definitely an example! Don't be ridiculous.”

“Keep moving!” an impatient elven guard demanded at the two. “And no more talking!”

John and Sherlock were quiet as they entered the elven kingdom, each brooding a bit after their tense exchange. They walked over bridges and around winding halls until they came to the throne room. The dwarves moved in single file, John and Sherlock taking the tail end until they were standing in the middle of the room, which kept changing shape. Obviously because the author couldn't decide what the damn room looked like. It went from oval, to square, the center of the room, where the throne stood, was first raised rather high, then brought closer to ground level. It was most distracting. Sherlock groaned. “Make up your damn mind, woman,” he grumbled under his breath. He glanced over and caught John, gazing open mouthed at the center of the room.

John watched the blond elf perched on his ornate throne. He couldn't help but be reminded of a certain somebody, all long lines and arrogant smirks. Flawless, pale skin. Eyes like blue ice. John couldn't help but stare. He watched as Thranduil sneered down his nose at Thorin, who stood in the front of the company scowling pointedly at the elf, chin held high. 

“What,” began the pompous elf, “were you doing in my forest?”  
“Just passing through,” Balin answered from Thorin's right.  
“Is that so?” Thranduil grinned evilly. “And did you consider getting the king's permission to travel on The King's Road in order to pass through?” he asked impatiently.

Thorin scowled. “How could we ask permission if there are none to ask upon entry?”

Well, he had the elf there. John smirked lightly as the elf on the throne nearly shook with repressed rage. “You're going to Erebor. To claim your birthright,” Thranduil said coolly, as though his knowledge was a blow to Thorin's ego. He place his fingers together, resting his elbows on his knees and his fingertips near his chin in a very familiar position.

John stifled a giggle. The glare Sherlock threw him did nothing to help him hold in his mirth, and he snorted lightly into his hand.   
“What's so funny?” Sherlock demanded in a whisper.  
“Nothing. Nothing, just, pay attention. I'm sure this is important.” John returned his gaze to Thranduil, watching intently as the elf sprawled himself lazily over his throne. 

“It doesn't matter. I will eventually get what I want, because I'm pretty and I'll live forever. You're all idiots. Go to the dungeon,” Thranduil said, clearly bored. He threw a leg over the arm of his throne, leaning back and flipping his hair. John swallowed thickly, the long lines and smooth porcelain skin, long slender fingers, gorgeous eyes....

Sherlock frowned at John, watching the doctor as he watched the elven king. John's pupils had dilated, a much overused observation, and his pulse was visible at his neck as he licked his lips. 

No.

Sherlock looked from John to Thranduil, who had met John's eye and was now grinning. His head nearly burst when the pompous elf gave John a lascivious wink.

“Excuse me, your highness,” Sherlock began loudly, making his way to the front of the company. “I have a question for you.” He met Thranduil's surprised frown with a smirk. “I'm trying to understand why you would treat these dwarves so harshly. Your obvious hatred for Thorin Oakenshield is the most probable reason. Said hatred is quite intense, typical of someone who is jealous of the object of their ire. I can only suspect that would mean you envy him. Considering he has no worldly possessions, aside from the clothes on his back and the weapon you have now taken from him, I would have to suspect you are jealous of his followers. Perhaps he has much more loyal subjects than you do, or maybe you are simply very disliked in your kingdom, not a far stretch considering the fact that you are obviously a complete idiot and a bit of a knob head. Perhaps it is because you're insecure, which leads me to believe you have spent most of your life feeling quite inadequate. Your self assurance is wavering, therefore you are not simply an arrogant prick because you're a superior being with inhuman intelligence as I am, but rather, you are insecure and trying to appear better than you are. You either have been raised with siblings with whom you had to compete, unlikely, given you have the air of a spoiled only child, or you are inadequate in some other way. Given that you are taller, fairer, and probably an equal match in strength, I would have to guess it is your penis size. Given the extent of anger directed at Thorin, are you jealous of the size of his dick? Or maybe of Bilbo here? Tell me, are you jealous of Thorin, or are you simply in love with him?”

Thranduil's face took on an ever deeper shade of red through the entire speech, and by the end of it, the dwarves were snickering in amusement and even some of the surrounding elves were chuckling behind their hands. 

“Who are you?” Thranduil ground out between clenched teeth.   
“Sherlock Holmes,” the detective smirked. “Pleasure to meet you.”  
Thranduil's eyes were full of fury as he studied the man before him.   
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, do go on. Read me my rights and take me to jail.”  
Thranduil's grasp of his temper wavered a bit. He slapped the armrest as he yelled. “This is MY kingdom! You HAVE no rights unless I decide so!”   
“Oh, good! That saves a large amount of tedious dialogue. Then do get on with it and lock us up already, as I suspect you decided to do upon our capture.”

* * * * * 

The elves had been a bit rough, particularly with Sherlock, as they directed the company to the dungeons. Sherlock had smirked the whole way, leaving John wracked with barely stifled fits of giggles. Finally, the elves locked the last cell and took their leave. 

“I can't believe you did that,” John grinned widely at Sherlock, shaking his head in amusement. “The look on Thranduil's face....”  
“It was well done,” Thorin said from the cell next to theirs. “Long have I craved to put that sprite in his place. It was good to see.”  
Sherlock grinned. “Now, I do hope you haven't gotten too comfortable gentlemen.” He held up the key he had nicked from the guard.   
Thorin smirked. “You've surprised me again, Mr. Holmes. Let's get out of this god-forsaken dump.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos appreciated! Thank you all for following along! More soon


	14. New Love

They wouldn't shut up. The red head elf had been sitting on the step next to Kili's cell for ages, and Sherlock was ready to tell her to piss off just so she would leave! He had been so close to springing them all from their cells, when the guard captain had shown up under the pretense of checking on the prisoners. Now she just couldn't bare to be pulled away from Thorin's youngest nephew, a fact the brooding king obviously found distasteful. 

Sherlock could see Thorin from where he was imprisoned. The dwarf was sitting on the floor of his cell, back to the wall and fuming angrily as he glared daggers at the elf maid. Sherlock found it odd none of the dwarves were making a fuss, none of them bothered to tell Kili to quit fraternizing with the enemy. It must have been close to dawn when the elf finally left, throwing a flirtatious grin over her shoulder at Kili as she turned the corner and moved out of sight. 

“Oh, finally,” Sherlock grumbled as he slid the key into the lock and let himself out of his prison. He looked up at the excited sounds of relief as the dwarves all pushed themselves to the front of their cells. 

“Well done, Mr. Holmes,” Bilbo's voice chimed from the cell next to his. Sherlock freed the hobbit, then proceeded to free the other company members, finally coming to John's cell. He met the doctor's admiring gaze with a shy grin.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” John said softly. Then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's cheek and turned quickly to join the rest of the group. Sherlock pressed his fingers to the spot where John's lips had touched his skin. Like some idiotic smitten hero in a rom-com. But he couldn't find it in himself to care. It was nice to be the object of John's appreciation. Perhaps he could manage to win John over without being a romantic sap.

* * * * *

More orcs. They were everywhere, shooting at the company as they were tossed about by the rapids of the great river. The great river? Was that what it was called, or was that just how Sherlock was referring to it in his head? No matter. It was of little consequence when there were arrows flying everywhere and you were being bashed against rocks. 

Ah, time jumping. Sherlock groaned. How the hell had they gotten into barrels in the first place? One moment, he was springing everyone from jail, and now the next they were crammed into barrels and careening down the rapids. Small barrels, mind you. By all rights, Sherlock should not be able to fit into one. Even John was too tall to-

John!

Sherlock glanced around frantically, unable to see much through blasts of water spraying everywhere and his wet hair hanging over his face.   
“John!” he cried out.  
“Sherlock! Here!” John responded, and Sherlock felt the weight lift off his chest. At least the good doctor was still alive. He whipped his head around, searching for his friend. What did catch his eye was a flash of red hair. The guard captain. Sherlock squinted and pulled his hair out of his eyes. 

Tauriel. The guard was running, sprinting, down the river back, taking out every orc in her path, her eyes picking Kili out after every kill. She was intent on keeping him from harm. Any orc who targeted him was quickly eliminated. 

How strange. Why would Tauriel risk life and limb to save a dwarf she hardly knew?

Although, John had killed a man to save his life shortly after they had first met. Perhaps it was not so uncommon to love so fiercely so soon.   
Love. There was that word again. Partially, it made Sherlock want to gag. But then again, it did tug at something long forgotten in his chest.   
Maybe romance wasn't so bad. Maybe pining and slow burn bull shit weren't as horribly overrated as he had first expected.

Or maybe, that was the wishful thinking of a thirty one year old romantic sap writing fanfic instead of going to bed. But hey, he was a fictional character in a fanfic. Who was he to judge?

* * * * *

The journey to shore had been amusing to say the least. Sherlock and John didn't seem to have much trouble, but many of the dwarves did. Ori had gotten caught up in the current, and it took every ounce of Dwalin's strength to pull him in. Meanwhile, Bilbo had gotten stranded on a barrel, and Thorin nearly lost his mind trying to get to him. That may have had something to do with the fact that Bilbo had taken that moment to confess to Thorin that he couldn't swim. In any case, they all found themselves once again on solid ground, freezing cold and dripping wet. 

Sherlock shook out his hair, letting flecks of river water splash at John's face. What did it matter? They were both soaked to the bone anyway.   
“Sherlock, you fuckin twat, watch it!” John complained.   
“Sorry,” Sherlock replied, insincerity plain in his tone. He turned to John with an impish grin, and John rolled his eyes in response.   
“Git.”  
Sherlock chuckled lightly. “Nothing like a good old fashion brush with death to make you feel alive.”  
“Easy for you to say,” Bombur grumbled as he plopped down next to John on the rocks. “I would much rather be sitting by a nice fire without such a 'close brush with death' .” Bombur smirked at John's light laughter and began wringing out his enormous beard. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the large dwarf. Interesting. Side character, usually with little or no lines, and yet here he sat, bantering with John. Funny, when inside his head, Sherlock couldn't follow the thread of the conversation, of course because it couldn't be written within a monologue of his mental notes. Which brought him to his next question. Why was Bombur sitting with them? Was he to learn something from this usually quiet dwarf? What was the author's purpose in bringing him to sit with Sherlock and John? Perhaps he should listen in.   
“-there's nothing like it, my lad. Nothing like it.”  
Sherlock frowned, glancing at John, who was now staring off at the ground with a besotted grin and a faraway look.   
What had he missed?

Sherlock jumped at the sound of an arrow piercing wood. He turned to see a man, like a real actual human, not a dwarf, or an elf, or some orc monstrosity, aiming a bow and arrow at Kili, and loosing an arrow that knocked the rock from the dwarf princes hand. 

“Do it again, and you're dead.”

Without missing a beat, John stood, his gun in his hand, and shot the bow from the man's grasp. Was that even possible? The man turned toward them, shock in his eyes as he assessed the foreign object in the doctor's hands. 

“Who are you?” the man asked.  
“No, who the fuck are you?” John demanded.  
“I'm fucking Bard the Bowman, bitch!”

Honestly, what the hell? Sherlock rolled his eyes skyward. “Fucking woman,” he huffed under his breath. Obviously she thought this was hilarious. 

“Alright 'Bard the Bowman', take us to Laketown,” Sherlock demanded. Laketown? He hadn't even heard of the place. No matter. Apparently that's where they needed to go. 

Bard rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bard the Bowman, bitch!  
Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Wonder how our modern world pair will do with Bard and his family? As always, thank you for reading! More soon!


	15. Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello loves! Only a few more chapters to go!  
This one is a little less humorous, but I hope you enjoy it all the same.

Cold and wet. Everyone was cold and wet. The town on the lake was a miserable place, smelling distinctly of rotten fish and misery. Bard had managed to smother the company into his little home through the toilet. There were a few dwarves who were in no way impressed, but Sherlock found it amusing. Of course, his amusement was dampened by his discomfort. His clothes were soaked and the air was damp and freezing cold. Being inside didn't do much to help, the draft in the miserable little building was horrible. 

And the bowman had children. Children were uncharted territory. The smallest one came and stood before Sherlock. She stared at him for several minutes, then came and sat next to him. 

“What's your name?” she asked in her little voice.  
“Sherlock,” he answered, giving her an uncertain sidelong glance.   
“I like your scarf,” she said.  
“Oh. Uh- thank you...” Sherlock pulled the ratty blanket tighter around his shoulders. He sighed in relief when John came and sat at the little one's other side.  
“Hello there,” John said with a kind smile. “What's your name?”  
“Tilda,” she answered. “That's my sister, Sigrid, and my brother, Bain. Are you two brothers?”

What the fuck was the author playing at here? Awkward tension? What?

“Oh no, no we're not brothers,” John answered quickly, “Sherlock is my... friend. My best friend,” John smiled warmly at Sherlock over the girl's shoulder. There was a sparkle in his eye that Sherlock was glad to see had returned. 

Sherlock smiled, letting his eyes soften as he gazed into John's. Tilda, apparently deciding this was a good time to take her leave, hopped off the bench and scurried off to find more blankets. 

“So,” Sherlock shook his head, breaking the spell, “what were you and Bombur talking about when Master Bard made his appearance?”

“What?” John frowned. “Oh!” he blushed lightly, averting his gaze and shifting uncomfortably. 

Sherlock cocked a brow curiously. “Now you must tell me.”  
“It was nothing,” John insisted.  
Sherlock grinned. “You're blushing. You're fidgeting and looking everywhere but at me, which indicates the subject for some reason makes you uncomfortable, or at least uncomfortable to talk about with me, therefore it can't be 'nothing'.”  
John rolled his eyes. “He was talking about his wife, is all.”  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “If that was all, why would it make you so uncomfortable?”  
John huffed. “Love.” He looked up at Sherlock defiantly. “Love, ok? We were talking about what it feels like to have another person become everything to you. To feel more for that person than anyone else in the world, to care about them more than yourself. Does that answer your question?”

Sherlock's eyes were wide, his jaw working to find words as his brain stumbled and seemed to short circuit. “Love?”  
“Yes, now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to find a hot beverage.” With that, John stood and left, Sherlock staring after him shocked and confused. 

* * * * *

Despite the reservations the people first seemed to have, they soon became quite the hosts. Laketown could really throw a party, John mused as he sat at the table watching as everyone celebrated. They were a simple people, dreaming only of living in a bit of comfort instead of the squaller they all seemed doomed to. If the fat and greedy master would only loosen his purse strings a bit, his people wouldn't suffer so. 

John didn't like the master. He was a villain, a horrible excuse for a man.

At least the people seemed happy to have something to celebrate. John grinned as he spotted Bilbo and Thorin rushing hand in hand up the stairs at the other end of the bar. 

Good for them. It was time they had a moment alone. 

John sneezed. Perhaps he should turn in early. He was feeling a bit worn out, and come to think of it, he was quite cold. He sat down his mug and stood, then stumbled a bit, but caught himself on the table with a frown. He hadn't really been drinking. Mostly he'd stuck to water, so there should be no reason he would be intoxicated at this point. But he did feel a bit dizzy. 

Yes, it was time for bed. John sneezed again as he made his way through the crowded room.   
“John?” Sherlock was suddenly at his side, his face full of concern. “John, are you alright?”  
“Fine, thank you. Just need to go to bed,” John answered.  
Sherlock pressed his wrist to John's forehead. “No, you're not. You're sick,” Sherlock declared. “Come on. I'll take you back to the room.” He wrapped an arm around John's waist, surprised the doctor didn't object. 

Sherlock led John up the stairs, careful not to move to fast or to let the doctor stumble. He opened the door to his guest room, ushering John in and closed the door softly behind them. He moved to press his hand against John's forehead again, and frowned at the obvious fever the doctor had spiked.   
“You're burning up,” Sherlock announced.  
“Yes, thank you, I am a doctor, I know what a fever feels like,” John responded testily.  
“Come on then,” Sherlock took the hem of John's shirt and lifted it up and off. “Let's get you cooled down a bit and get into bed.”  
John helped Sherlock as he pulled off John's still damp layers. Why was it the dwarves all got fresh clothes and he and John had to stick with what they had?  
“There wasn't anything to fit us,” John answered Sherlock's silent question. “We're much taller than the people here.”  
Sherlock nodded, more focused on getting John's clothes off. He went to find his pack and pulled out one of his own shirts and helped John into it.

John looked down and frowned. “One of yours?”  
Sherlock grinned, relishing the way the neckline hung loosely around one of John's shoulders, the hem hitting him barely at mid-thigh. “Yes. It looks better on you.”  
John smirked.   
“Anyway, we need to get your temperature down a bit. Best you sleep in as few layers as possible,” Sherlock raised a suggestive eyebrow before turning to stoke the fire.  
“You do realize a fever is the body's way of fighting off infection? It's good that I've spiked a fever,” John lectured.  
“Yes, but you feel far too warm for it to be healthy,” Sherlock argued as he threw another log on.  
John rolled his eyes. “Because I'm not healthy, Sherlock. I'm obviously sick.”  
“You know what I mean.” Sherlock sighed and spun to face him. “Alright then, doctor. What is your suggested treatment?”  
“Sleep. And lots of it.”

Sherlock grinned. “Alright. Sleep it is.” He pulled off his coat and began unbuttoning his shirt, clearly intent on joining John.

John frowned. “You realize I do really mean to sleep, correct?”  
“John, you are ill. I have no intention of taking advantage of you. But I do fully intend to take care of you.”

John's lips quirked into a grin as he climbed under the covers. He shivered as Sherlock lifted the blanket to crawl in next to him. 

“Come here,” Sherlock urged, setting his hands on John's waist and pulled him in closer. He wrapped his arms around John and tucked his chin over his head. 

This was new. The feel of John's skin against him. Of John's breath ghosting over his chest. The feel of his heartbeat, the smell of his hair. And, although it all seemed quite overly romantic to him, Sherlock found he rather enjoyed it. There was so much more to this romance thing than he had anticipated. The feelings that came with it, for starters. He felt an overwhelming need to take care of John, to hold him and love him in a way he'd never felt for anyone before. 

Love. What a foreign word. A foreign condition. A new territory to explore, and Sherlock was surprised to find it didn't scare him or disgust him one bit. Not with John.

Sherlock knew this was ridiculous. Knew what a cliché it was, taking care of your sick love interest. But he didn't care. Not if it made him feel like this. Warm, bubbly, and full.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, comments are appreciated!   
More soon!


	16. Smut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright guys. It's about time we got to business. Smut!!! And not the most amazing smut, but smut anyway! Enjoy it while you can, things are going to get weird.

Sherlock awoke to soft kisses on his chest. A hand smoothed over his hip and down his thigh, and he hummed low in his chest. 

“There you are,” John whispered, his breath sending shivers under Sherlock's skin. He looked up, face soft, eyes heavily lidded and gave Sherlock a wry grin. 

“Morning,” Sherlock grinned back and opened his arms as John climbed up and kissed him soundly on the lips. “I see you're feeling better.”

“Yes. I am,” John answered as he settled against Sherlock. He rolled his hips and Sherlock gasped, his eyes falling shut and hips shifting up toward the warmth of John's body.  
“I want to thank you for taking such good care of me last night,” John said softly, letting his lips brush Sherlock's.

“I hardly did anything. Just put you to bed,” Sherlock responded, his voice husky with sleep and arousal.

“Exactly. You put me to bed. So sweetly,” John murmured. He trailed his lips along Sherlock's jaw, making the detective gasp as his head fell to the side. “You were so selfless. So caring,” John's whispered words tickled Sherlock's skin, and he groaned as John sucked where his pulse fluttered beneath his ear.   
“Say my name,” John whispered. He ran his tongue up the length of Sherlock's neck and nibbled at his earlobe. 

That was a bit of an odd request. Sherlock had said John's name loads of times. Was it really so erotic? Sherlock really wasn't of the mind to do anything that would make John stop, and so he decided to humor him. “John?” Sherlock's questioning voice was thick with arousal, and apparently John found it acceptable, because he continued kissing down Sherlock's chest.

“John,” Sherlock's voice was breathier as the anticipation wound ever tighter. “John!” he gasped as a tongue ran up the crease of his thigh. 

Where had his pants gone? Fuck, who cared? This was what all the build up had been for. This was why there was so much miscommunication, why pining existed. This was exquisite! Who knew that he could feel this way? Even if it was only because it was written to be so. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care. Everything felt amazing. 

John was hovering over him now, reaching to the bedside table for...   
a vial of oil.   
How convenient.   
The thought was shattered from Sherlock's mind when he felt John begin to push into him. The burning stretch was minor, and paled in comparison to the delicious fullness of John inside him, against him. The feel of his heartbeat against Sherlock's chest, the warmth of his body, the drag and pull as he slowly thrusted, in and out, pressing in deeper each time.

“Oh, Mahal, John,” Sherlock had no idea who or what Mahal was, but if the author wanted him to say it, so be it. As long as John didn't stop. As long as this continued. This amazing, building passion inside him. His skin tingled where it touched John's, and he didn't care that that sounded cheesy. It didn't matter. All that mattered was this moment, this connection and the fact that it was John he was sharing it with. 

John's movements sped up, his hips thrusting erratically, and Sherlock was completely captivated by the sight of him; brow furrowed, bliss clear on his face as his jaw went slack. Another thrust and John was lost, moaning and gasping as his climax hit. Sherlock felt the heat coiling inside him, (there it was again. What did that even mean?!) and he quickly followed John over the edge, every thought washed from his mind by hot white light. His eyes fluttered open to find John panting and looking down at him like he was the most amazing being on the planet. His lips were parted, hair disheveled and eyes full of adoration as he gazed down at Sherlock. 

It was beautiful. Never had Sherlock been so awestruck by another. He sank his hands into John's hair and pulled him down to kiss him, devouring him with lips and tongue.  
He finally relinquished his hold and John sighed, all but collapsing onto Sherlock's chest. 

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered.

“Thank you?” John asked incredulously.

“Yes. I've never.....” oh honestly, a virgin? Him? At his age? He looked up at the ceiling over John's shoulder with a grin and mumbled “how original.”

John quickly pushed himself up onto his knees, looking horrified. “Sherlock, was that your first time?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock answered with a shrug of his shoulders. Honestly, he was pretty thrilled if his first time got to be that. 

“Oh my God. I am so sorry,” John jumped up and immediately began pacing, pulling his hands through his hair in agitation.

Sherlock frowned, jumping to his feet and grabbed John's shoulders mid step. “Why? John, don't be sorry. That was....” Sherlock scrambled to find words that would accurately describe what exactly that was. “amazing.” He dropped his hands to John's waist and took a step closer, pressing himself against the shorter man's body. “You give me more than I deserve.” Sherlock wanted to loathe the words coming from his own mouth, but he couldn't bring himself to.   
They were true.   
“You have been so very patient with me, with my idiocy. You are.... the most astounding, incredible, beautiful person I have ever met. I love you, John.” 

The responding smile was beyond anything Sherlock had ever seen on John's face. The doctor pulled him close and began kissing him in earnest, pulling him down onto the rug before the fire. 

Ah, a typical setting for a woman's smut fic. But Sherlock couldn't even bring himself to note it out loud. It really seemed like the perfect place for their surprisingly soon second round. The fire was warm, (how was it still burning?) and the rug beneath them soft and thick. Sherlock settled into the cradle of John's legs, his mouth and tongue mapping every inch of John's neck and shoulders. He slid his hand down John's chest and abdomen. He pulled back just a little, taking himself in hand and lining up with John, then he slowly, slowly pushed in. 

This should not be so easy. He hadn't even used proper lubrication, but apparently, reality can be shifted for a good shag. At least in fic. Sherlock wasn't about to question it. And, judging by the way John's mouth had dropped open and he had begun panting Sherlock's name, he wasn't going to complain either. Sherlock settled back down against John's warm body and began languidly thrusting into the doctor.

“Sherlock,” John's hands found Sherlock's face and he gently pulled him up from where he had been panting into John's skin.

Sherlock froze, gazing back into dark pools of midnight, uncertainty marring his features. 

John leaned up and kissed Sherlock softly. He laid back and ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls. “Let me see you. Let me watch you come undone.”

Sherlock grinned and rolled his hips a few times, before picking up pace as he watched the admiration in John's eyes grow. John's hands were everywhere; sweeping over the expanse of Sherlock's back, reaching down to palm at his firm backside, running up and down his arms and sides, burying themselves in his hair and trailing down his neck. Every touch lit a spark of fire under Sherlock's skin, building into a rushing crescendo until he found himself unable to hold back. His hips picked up their pace, rolling and jerking beyond his control.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John gasped, his eyes starting to roll back in his head. His back arched and he let out a long, deep moan as he came, his eyes snapping back to Sherlock's as the detective froze. His hips jerked a few times, burying him deep into John as his orgasm pulsed through him. Finally, he collapsed, panting and gasping raggedly against John's chest. 

“How was that?” John asked with a grin.  
Sherlock rolled off of John and onto his back, his mind nearly blank with the peace he now felt. “I have no words.”  
John chuckled. “Me too.” He rolled over and curled into Sherlock's side, and soon he began to snore softly.   
Sherlock grinned. Perhaps being in a fanfic wasn't all so terrible after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Next, we go to the mountain! Wonder what's going to happen then.......


	17. Inconsistencies.... More of them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:This chapter is a hot mess. I don't care, because it makes me giggle. Sorry Sherlock!

Sherlock blinked his eyes slowly open. 

Was it morning? Evening? How long had they been laying on the floor before the hearth? How was the damn fire still burning? How many days had they been in this god-forsaken-town? 

“Damn woman,” Sherlock mumbled as he pushed himself up to sitting.  
“Hmmm?” John hummed in question. He yawned when he didn't get an answer, rolling over and pulling the blanket over his head.

When had they gotten a blanket?

“John. Get up. We have to leave,” Sherlock urged as he rose to get himself dressed.

“Leave?” John sat up, letting the blanket pool around his naked waist.

Sherlock gazed hungrily at the expanse of exposed skin. He licked his lips, then squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Yes. The dwarves were eager to continue on, and we'll be lucky if they haven't left us already,” Sherlock answered as stood up and tossed John his pants. 

They dressed quickly, then all but flew down the stairs and out the door. 

* * * * *

“Stupid impatient fools,” Sherlock cursed as he and John watched the boat sail off with Thorin and the company. 

“Hey Sherlock?” John sounded genuinely concerned, staring off into the crowd with a frown.  
“What is it?” Sherlock followed John's line of site and spotted Thorin's heirs, along with the healer and the dwarf with the funny hat.   
“Something is wrong,” John announced, immediately making his way over to the four. “Kili is injured, come on.”  
John quickly pushed his way through the crowd, Sherlock struggling to keep up behind him. 

* * * * *

It was at the very last moment that Bilbo managed to spot the key hole in the light of the moon. He stood to the side as Thorin pushed open the door into the mountain, opening the way into his kingdom. His birthright. His home. 

“This, Master Baggins, is where you come in,” Thorin said softly. “You must find the Arkenstone, and bring it out to me.”

Balin walked Bilbo down into the dark maw of the mountain, returning moments later looking nervous and quite a bit guilty.

“Wait! You just let Bilbo go in there alone?” John asked incredulously.  
Balin frowned. “Didn't you two stay with Kili?”  
“Honestly, I don't fucking know what's going on,” John answered in agitation.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Constant inconsistencies. She's clearly drunk, sleep deprived, or both. She doesn't even know what's going on.”

The dwarves all looked at Sherlock as though he had grown three heads.  
Dwalin cocked his head in confusion. “Who?”  
“Oh never mind! What about Bilbo?!” John demanded.  
“What do you suggest, Dr. Watson?” Thorin asked moodily.  
“Sherlock and I are going in after him,” John announced.

Sherlock's eyes widened. “Well, I suppose we're facing a dragon. Come on, then, John. We best get on with it.” At least he wasn't going to die a virgin.

* * * * *

“How do you treat a poisoned arrow wound?!” John yelled as he helped hold Kili to the table in Bard's rickety shack.  
Sherlock looked around, completely disoriented. “Weren't we just going in after Bilbo?! How did we get back here?”  
“How the fuck should I know?!? Now tell me how to fix him!”  
“Aren't you supposed to be a doctor?!”  
“Aren't you supposed to be a genius?!”  
“Ah! The elf! The elf will know!” Sherlock jumped up to stand before the beautiful captain of the guard as she came into the room. “Tra- Talil- dammit....you! With the red hair! Fix him!” Sherlock gestured dramatically toward the dwarf on the table as John rolled his eyes.  
“Tauriel, Sherlock. Her name is Tauriel,” John scolded, before turning to the elf. “My lady, please, can you heal him?”  
Tauriel moved quickly to Kili's side, placing one hand on his forehead and one on his wrist. “Yes.” She looked around the room. John, Sherlock, Fili, Oin, Bofur, Tilda, and Sigrid all stood around the table, looking to Tauriel for direction. “Hold him down.”

The elf began to chant in a strange and beautiful language, her words rolling and flowing around one another like water in a stream.   
“I am awestruck John, why am I awestruck?” Sherlock asked, looking to the doctor for answers. But John wasn't listening. He was entranced by the elven magic, lighting up the room and rendering all who saw it speechless.

As Tauriel's words faded off, Kili began to stir, his eyes opened and he stared at her in wonder. “Lady, thou art more beautiful than a summer's day, more radiant then the sun, more-”  
“Oh for crying out loud,” Sherlock turned to John. “Did you watch the movies?”  
“Did I... what?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “These can't be Fili's lines.”  
“Kili. Kili, Sherlock,” John corrected.  
“Oh, Fili. Kili. Whatever. Sounds like some kind of sushi roll. What is she attempting, Shakespeare? What the actual fuck?”  
“'What the actual fuck'? Did you just say 'what the actual fuck'?” John shook his head incredulously.   
“Yes, well, look, I think he's healed!” Sherlock quickly diverted attention back to the dwarf on the table. 

Indeed, Kili's skin was still pale, but his eyes looked brighter. His breaths seemed less labored and he looked far more peaceful. Though that might have been because Tauriel was now holding his hand and smiling down at him beautifully. 

John grinned at the scene. “Well Sherlock, I believe we should try to catch a wink before everything goes to hell around here.”  
“You think it will?” Sherlock asked, not at all doubting the odds of something else crazy happening.   
“Oh yes. I do believe it will.”

* * * * *

“A dragon,” John was whispering. “A fucking dragon, Sherlock.”  
“Yes,” Sherlock answered agitatedly as they worked their way down the winding path into the mountain. 

The air was suddenly quite hot, and suddenly they stumbled into a vast hall filled with treasure which was quite the overuse of the word “suddenly”. John quickly grabbed Sherlock's arm, pointing to where Bilbo stood, an enormous and terrifying dragon standing over him. 

“Come now, John. It's time to meet Smaug.” Sherlock kept John's hand held in his own as he led the doctor down to the sea of gold on the floor. They quietly crept closer, listening to the conversation being had. 

“You have nice manners, for a thief,” the dragon rumbled, his voice filling the spaces the gold left empty.

John stopped dead, his jaw dropping as he stared at the great creature. “That dragon has a particularly arousing voice,” he gasped, clearly entranced.  
Sherlock smirked with self satisfaction. “That's because it's mine.”  
John frowned, his eyes meeting Sherlock's. “I- I don't understand.”  
Sherlock shook his head. “Of course you don't. Come on.”

They crept over closer to where Bilbo and Smaug stood, and Sherlock was quite impressed at the hobbit's cleverness. He couldn't tell you why, or what Bilbo had said, but he felt as though he should be impressed, and supposed Bilbo must be being clever, even if the author wasn't clever enough herself to explain how he was clever. 

Damn lazy woman. 

Sherlock didn't get much time to curse her for it. The air suddenly went hot and Bilbo was running toward them.

“Run!” the hobbit yelled as he leapt past them and tumbled down the hill of gold coins. Sherlock and John froze as the dragon's keen eye spotted them. 

“Well now,” Smaug purred in that deep rumbling voice, “what have we here?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yea. I amuse myself. I hope I amuse you too!


	18. Conclusion...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!!! Sorry for the hiatus. It was involuntary, I assure you. My old laptop crashed, and it took me two weeks to get in my new one! Then I had to get everything transferred and organized..... anyway. It was a whole thing. But here we are! The final chapter of a silly messed up fic! Please enjoy!

The dragon came closer, movements fluid and predatory as he slid through the vast wealth of Erebor. He stopped before Sherlock and John, examining them with intelligent golden eyes. “You are not men of Laketown. You are much taller. More intelligent. And you cannot be elves. Elves are too clever to risk their lives to face me.”

“Clever? Or lazy?” Sherlock mumbled.  
“What was that?”  
“No. We are not from Laketown, and we are not elves. We are from a completely different world,” Sherlock stated.   
“Sherlock?” John huffed under his breath. He gave the detective a frown, concerned that maybe they shouldn’t be giving up so much information about themselves.   
Sherlock gave John an amused sidelong glance, before returning his gaze to the beast. “I suggest you leave this place, find another mountain to infest.”

“You’re boring me,” the dragon hissed. “If you don’t have anything of interest to say, there is no sense in letting you live.” Smaug readied himself to lunge at the men.

“Wait!” Sherlock’s voice echoed through the large cavern as he held his hands up at the great dragon before them. As though his hands could stop the creature. As though the giant monster would yield to the demands of a tiny human.   
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Smaug frowned, an expression Sherlock found a bit amusing, yet quite terrifying on the dragon’s reptilian face. 

“You are about to meet your end,” Sherlock declared.  
Smaug grinned an evil, toothy smile. “Oh, I think not.”  
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Sherlock continued. “You don’t know what’s really going on here.”

“Alright then. Enlighten me,” Smaug hissed.

“We are not masters of our own fates, and you are no master of mine. Only She has any control here. She decides how this story will end. Everything said, everything that happens, is entirely up to her.” 

Smaug frowned. “You’re telling me a woman is deciding our fates? Is controlling everything here? All of us?”  
Sherlock quirked a grin. “Try me. Try and kill me. I won’t stop you, but I guarantee she will not let it happen.”

Smaug took a deep breath, filling his lungs to ignite with the fire from his chest. He reared back, then thrust his head forward, letting the blast of flames out in a murderous river of death. At the very last second, Sherlock jumped to the side, seemingly without his own consent. He landed clumsily, falling onto his knees just outside killing range. 

“If you think that was me,” Sherlock panted, “you must be dumber than you look.”  
“You are not nearly so clumsy,” Smaug agreed. “You did not intend to dodge my attack?”  
Sherlock brushed the dust from his trousers. “No.”  
Smaug narrowed his eyes at the detective. “You’re no fool, human. I can feel your thoughts, the river in which they flow is not one to be easily manipulated.”  
“Neither is yours.”  
“No.” The great dragon sighed, then looked up at the entrance to the hall. “I suppose I have no choice, then.” He rose, spreading his great wings with the clatter of thousands of falling coins and gems. Without another word, he left the cavern, flying off to the north in search of a new home.

“What the bloody hell just happened?” John demanded.  
Sherlock gave him a smirk. “We just convinced a dragon to relocate.”  
“We? And that’s it? That- that beast is just….. gone?”   
“Yes.”  
“But- he was- how?”  
“It’s what she wanted. Besides, I couldn’t just stand by and let myself be murdered by Bard the Bowman.”  
“But that doesn’t make any sense!!”  
Sherlock’s smirk grew into an amused grin. “Nope. Now come on. The rest have arrived.”

John followed Sherlock as the dwarves filed in.

*****

“How did you two get here?” Fili asked as he ran to meet the company ahead of Kili, Bofur, and Oin. “You were… you were there. In Laketown… you helped with Kili!”  
John shook his head. “No idea.”  
Kili frowned, before his eye was drawn to the sight of their uncle, standing upon a mountain of gold.   
“Look, motherfuckers! Gold!” Thorin’s voice was gruff and proud.  
Fili and Kili frowned at their uncle’s ridiculous declaration.   
“Did he just say-?”  
“I believe he did.”  
“What does that even-?”  
“No idea.”  
“Do you think he’s lost his-?”  
“Most definitely.”

Sherlock shook his head. He didn’t even know which one of them was saying what. He put a hand over his face and huffed. “You could at least pretend to try,” he murmured under his breath. But the author didn’t give a fuck and there was nothing he could do about it.

“My king!” Dwalin’s voice called from somewhere above on a walkway. He leaned over the rail, eyes frantic. “Elves are marching this way!”  
Thorin clenched his jaw, eyes hardening as he leaped from where he stood and ran to the stairs.

The company stood on the wall, overlooking the elven king’s vast army. Thranduil made his way forward, astride his great elk. 

“King Thorin! I have come to collect that which belongs to me,” Thranduil declared.  
“You have no claim on anything here,” Thorin responded.  
“We both know of what I speak!”  
“They’re mine!”  
“Give me the gems!”  
“NO!”  
“Thorin.... Give them to me!”  
“Make me!”  
“Don't make me come up there!”  
“Or what?”  
“I'll kill you!”  
“You and what army?!”

John glanced at Sherlock, who was struggling not to laugh. He turned back to dwarf king and stalked toward him impatiently. “Oh for Christ sake Thorin, he has an army! Give him the damn jewels!”  
Thorin turned his murderous gaze toward John. “How dare-“  
“Oh look,” Sherlock interrupted. “Orcs.”

*****

Thorin stood before his mighty foe, Fili and Kili flanking him on either side. He glared dangerously at the pale orc, adjusting his grip on the handle of Orcrist. 

What the fuck? How had time skipped so terribly? What was she doing?! Were the last chapters of this fic an absolute joke?! Sherlock shook his head.

“Dwarf scum!” Azog bellowed, pointing his blade at Thorin and his nephews. “Thank you for bringing your heirs so that I might end your line all at once!”

Thorin raised his sword, his body coiled like a spring and ready to strike. “I dare you to try.”

They rushed forward, Thorin and his heirs, Azog and Bolg, meeting together with a deafening crash of metal. John and Sherlock rushed onto the scene, taking in the sight with alarm. More orcs were coming. There was no way the Durins stood a chance.

John leapt into action without a second thought. He pulled out his gun and shot Bolg and Azog in the head.

Everyone froze, and Sherlock was relieved to see the other orcs decide to retreat with haste at the loss of their leaders. 

Thorin gave John a dark look. “You've stolen my victory. But you have managed to save us all. Why don't you and Sherlock stay in Erebor with us?”

John exchanged a look with Sherlock. “You know what, I think we will.”

Wait, was this the end? Sherlock frowned, grasping at his hair in agitation. Was this really how this fic was going to end? All these chapters, all the ridiculousness and half-baked plot line, just to end with no real-  
“As long as I’m with Sherlock, it doesn’t really matter what world we’re in,” John said with a smile, moving to stand in front of the taller man.   
“What?” Sherlock furrowed his brow.  
In lieu of an answer, John cradled Sherlock’s face with his hands and pulled him into a kiss. 

Sherlock sighed. He supposed there were worse ways this could have ended. And it felt like maybe there would be more to add later. 

He truly hoped not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone, for taking on this absolute garbage, enjoying it, hitting kudos, leaving comments, and all the wonderful things you've all done to let me know this has hopefully made you laugh!   
More soon?  
-Mama


End file.
